Saving Me
by ASDF Rainbow Ninja
Summary: John Watson left his old school for unspoken reasons. Now, he never allows anyone to get too close- until he meets Sherlock Holmes, who he's drawn to like a moth to a flame. Suddenly, they're wrapped up in a murder mystery that leaves even Sherlock blank. Will they be able to solve it? Or will they die trying? Johnlock, Teen!lock. Rated T for language and moderate slash.
1. Part 1: Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**A/N- I love teen!lock. XD**

**Anyway, things you need to know. You'll figure out most of it along the way, but most of the students are in their Junior year, Sherlock is about a year and a half younger than John. I used quotes from the show and altered them to fit the story line.**

* * *

**Part 1**

_January_

John leaned against the office wall of St. Bart's High, patiently waiting for his father to finish talking with his new principal. His ocean eyes flickered to his cane positioned in his right hand, secretly hoping he wouldn't get teased too much when others caught sight of it. He had already earned a few stares, considering he was officially the new kid- he was nervous, worried that this school would be just like the last after...the incident.

"Stop fidgeting, _Johnny_." his 14-year old sister ordered with an annoyed tone- when wasn't she annoyed, though? Harry hated him. But then again, she hated the world- as a Freshman, she had already been drunk and snuck out of the house multiple times. She was innocent enough from afar, with ever-changing hazel irises and blond hair that was cut short in the back and gradually became longer in the front, tips ending below her chin. She wore John's old cameo pants that no longer fit him, a black, long-sleeved shirt, and forest green Converse. But once someone got close to her if she let them, Harry was far from sweet and innocent.

"Shut up, _Harriet_." he spat in return. She grew closer, attempting to tower over him menacingly. Even though John was short for his age, she wasn't taller than the near 17-year old. "_Harry_. Don't call me Harriet." she corrected her older sibling.

"Don't call me Johnny." John retorted, not bothering to stand taller. Harry opened her mouth to insult him, but their father returned, looking extremely tired and stressed. With a weak grin that John could tell was forced, he and his sister were handed their schedules.

"Kids." he warned without much enthusiasm. Or care. _He hasn't slept in a while, _John noted, _Maybe nightmares of the war. Maybe fighting with Mom._

"Sorry." both siblings muttered, not truly meaning it.

"Be good." And with that, Mr. Watson left them alone.

_No surprise there..._

Harry sighed, and John could tell she was upset. "Harry..." he tried, but she glared at him with dagger-like eyes for sympathizing and stormed away. John sighed himself, rather heavily, and peered down at his schedule. It was 3rd period, and he was to be in Chemistry.

As he made his way down the crowded hall, everyone seemed to stare at him. He quickened his pace and ducked his head, blond hair spilling over his eyes.

He was short for a male, and he honestly hated it most of the time. But now, it was a Godsend. Being shorter would attract less attention to him, as people could easily look over him as he got over his title as "the new kid."

Luckily, he was well-built, even with his break from working out, and that made up for his height. It wasn't noticeable with his attire, though- a soft, beige jumper over a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and brown leather shoes hid his well-built body.

He ended up late to class after getting lost and attempting to use the stairs, and all but ran into the room, 221B, which interrupted the lecture. The class stared at him with wide, curious eyes, silence enveloping the room. John flushed with embarrassment. "I-I apologize. I...I got lost." he admitted. Only a few laughed at his misfortune, but he supposed getting lost was rather ridiculous.

The teacher smiled at him warmly. "Do not fret, Dear. You must be John Watson. I am Mrs. Hudson. Welcome to St. Bart's." She picked up a binder and flipped through pages inside it, checking role, and available seats and partners. "We finally have an even number in here!" she informed him happily. "Your partner for the year is Sherlock Holmes." Suddenly, the class erupted in whispers and giggles. Confused, John searched the room for his partner, wondering why everyone was reacting in such a way...then he heard the words "freak," "insane," "mad," and "psychopath."

_Oh, lovely._

"Quiet, class!" Mrs. Hudson ordered, and they settled. She rolled her eyes slightly and then called, "Sherlock? Could you raise your hand for John?" But no one moved. John eyed his teacher, suddenly wondering if _she_ was the mad one, and she began to get annoyed. "Sherlock Holmes! Show John who you are!" Snickering started up again, but John finally heard a deep, unenthusiastic "Here." He limped his way towards the back, finding his new partner. Sherlock was studying something through a microscope, clearly not interested enough in John to even take a peak at him.

But that didn't mean John wasn't interested- Sherlock's skin where he could see it (hands, neck, face) was ghostly pale, almost pure white. In stark contrast to it was his hair, ebony curls that shone a slight red from the lights. His cheekbones were high and prominent, and he dressed nicely- a deep violet dress shirt, black trousers, and polished black leather shoes. John noticed his height by the awkward placement of his legs on the stool he was perched on, and how thin he was as well.

Other than his coloring, deathly thinness, and odd behavior, he seemed alright.

As John sat beside him, his phone fell out of his pocket and onto the floor. He quickly gathered it and examined it, carefully checking for any new scratches. Finding none, he placed it on the table without another thought. Sherlock glanced at it for a brief moment, and then went back to studying. "Did a bully shoot you or someone close, someone you could call family?" he finally spoke, without even looking in John's direction. John jumped, surprised. _How the hell did he...?_

"Sorry?" he managed, voice choked.

"Which one is it?" Sherlock pried. John forced his answer out of his throat, right passed the lump. "Both." Wait, why was he so open about it to a stranger when he couldn't even talk to his therapist? He sent him a strange look. "Sorry, how did you-?"

Mrs. Hudson then resumed lecturing, interrupting John's curiosity. Instead of listening to reactions between elements, he pondered over the possibilities. Had Sherlock talked to any of his old mates? Any of the kids that went to his previous school?

Maybe he could read minds?

_No. Impossible. That's absolutely insane._

After a while of teaching, another instructor stepped in, and ushered Mrs. Hudson out into the hall. As she complied, Sherlock questioned John randomly. "How do you feel about Chemistry?"

John jumped once more. Why was he so jumpy? Sherlock didn't frighten him. _Much_. He just made him curious. And shocked him. And somewhat fascinated him.

Caught off guard, John replied, confused, "I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock slowly spun a dial as he spoke. "I don't do the the work assigned because it's child's curriculum. Simple, something I learned during grade school. I refuse to partake in any of said work because it's an absolute waste of my time. The only activity I participate in would be experimenting. Also, I don't talk for days on end, so you can't depend on me for help anyway. Would that bother you? Partners should know the worst about each other." Sherlock explained simply, as if John should know about him already and he was annoyed about the fact that the situation was quite the opposite.

John wasn't concerned about that- he could function fine on his own. But he had to know about something else. "How did you know about the shooting?"

Sherlock didn't want to speak about that, though, and continued on with his previous statement as if John hadn't spoken. "You'll do well on your own- you're intelligent, for an idiot. Now shut up while I work on my experiment. I'd love to finish."

John couldn't believe this guy- he suddenly knew everything about him even though he hadn't even been in there a full period. It was ridiculous, and made him slightly angry. "Is that it?"

Sherlock finally tore himself away from the microscope and met his eyes. "Is that what?" John almost froze under his icy green gaze- his irises were beautiful. He had never seen any other person with eyes like his. He snapped out of his trance, and then proceeded to be cross with Sherlock again. "We've only just met, and I'm already 'smart for an idiot?' You couldn't possibly know about my intellect." he demanded.

Sherlock didn't see an issue, and raised a dark eyebrow in question. "Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I have no clue who you are, and you have no clue who I am or what I've been through." John snapped, his blood starting to boil. Sherlock rolled his eyes with an overdramatic, exasperated sigh. "I know you're in therapy for multiple reasons, including your psychosomatic limp. You were shot, true, but the injury is far too healed for it to truly bother you physically. I also know that you've got a brother you're worried about, but you won't go to him for help about anything, nor will he go to you, because you don't see eye to eye, possibly because he's an alcoholic, but more likely because he recently broke up with his girlfriend because of your recent move to London. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? Now shut up, I can't think when your thoughts are so stupid." And he simply went back to his microscope, as if he hadn't just laid out John's life right in front of him. Even if he had been wrong about Harry being his brother.

Gawking at the boy, John was flabbergasted, and couldn't speak if he wanted to.

_So his observation skills are off the charts. That's not insane, just annoying. _

He looked around to see if anyone else had heard that. He caught the gaze of another male.

"Yeah, he's always like that." he assured John. John wanted to ask Sherlock tons of questions, but decided against it- Sherlock was obviously not in the mood to talk. Or deal with his...idiocy? _Intelligent_ idiocy?

Mrs. Hudson was still out of the room, and pondering over the mysterious Sherlock Holmes was giving him a migraine, so John picked up his cell, deciding to text someone...but who? He then went through his small number of contacts- he forgot that he had completely left his old life behind. He no longer had any numbers to text. Sighing with a bored expression, he decided to play Tetris.

The blocks ended up stacked up on each other with no order or strategy, and John reflected on the fact that his life resembled that level.

Two words flashed across the screen- _YOU LOSE._

* * *

The rest of the day was slow- no one made an attempt to talk to John other than Mike, the boy who had spoken to him in Chemistry, and his small group of friends. He showed John around, assisted him from getting class to class, and offered him a spot during lunch with the friends- Molly, Sarah, Greg, Sally, and Anderson. After introducing them to John, he began telling them about John's encounter with Sherlock.

"Get out while you can." Sally warned. She seemed warm by glancing at her, with her dark skin and hair, and chocolate eyes, but she was a cold person. When Anderson- possibly her boyfriend?- attempted to hold her hand, she slapped it with a loud _pop_ that made even John wince. He found that he recognized her and Anderson from Chemistry.

John had almost spat out his Coke. He swallowed a mouthful painfully. "What?"

Molly rolled her hazelnut eyes. "Sally's convinced Sherlock's insane and is plotting to kill everyone." Molly seemed like a kind girl, with fair skin and light brown hair in loose pigtails. Her smile was bright, covered in lime green braces.

"It's not just me, it's also the whole damn school!" Sally defended herself harshly, glaring at Molly. Anderson, most likely wanting to get (back) on Sally's good side, nodded in agreement. "I'm his neighbor. He's even more of a freak at his home." Other than the fact that Anderson was a prick, the things that stood out most about him were his large nose and horribly-styled black hair.

"Sherlock's not that bad." Molly insisted, beginning to grow frustrated as she raised her voice.

"You're only saying that because you have a major crush on him." Sally retorted with an eye roll.

Molly's cheeks flushed as she stammered, "Do not. I just think you should give him a chance."

"Me too." Sarah agreed. Her hair was brown, and pulled into a loose side ponytail. Her forest green eyes skimmed over words in a book, only tearing her eyes away for a moment to speak before continuing with her activity.

As the conversation turned to Greg's quietness, John pondered over whether he should attempt to be friends with his partner or treat him like a stranger the whole year. John certainly didn't want to become part of the crowd he was sitting with- Sally was, well, acting like a bitch, and Anderson was a complete prick. Though he wasn't sure about his Chemistry partner, he certainly wasn't going to talk bad about him- or let anyone else do so anymore. He was tired of it. No one should be judged in such a way Sherlock was.

"I think you should form your own opinion." Sarah suddenly inputted, snapping John out of his thoughts. He then smiled at her, decision finally made. Sherlock needed a friend, and he was going to be one- even though that might be difficult. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." He decided that he rather liked Sarah and her personality. (Molly too.) Maybe he could get her number eventually- she was pretty, after all.

When John entered Chemistry the next day, relatively early, Sherlock was already there and actually spoke to him, although still glued to his experiment. "Okay, you've got questions." John's hope soared. He was finally going to get answers! "Yeah." But his first one...

"What are you doing?" His eyebrows furrowed together as he questioned him.

Sherlock seemed bored. "Experiment. Next?"

John left Sherlock's personal business alone, and inquired about yesterday. "How did you know all those things about me right off?"

Sherlock smirked slightly as he backed away from his experiment, possibly in triumph, then recorded something in a journal beside him. While writing, he spoke. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said 'Bully or close friend?' You looked surprised."

"Yes. How did you know?"

Sherlock finished writing and pushed the microscope away, giving John his full attention as he turned towards him. "I didn't know, I saw." He pointed to his leg. "The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand- such as in line at lunch- like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic- therefore this person who shot you meant a great deal to you, and you feel betrayed by them. You're still bothered that they, of all people, inflicted pain upon you. Or you are frightened of them and you're also frightened it'll happen once again, so the pain is mental." John's jaw nearly hit the lab table in amazement. Sherlock was spot on. But he decided not to tell him that yet. He had more questions. "You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist." he retorted with an eye roll, as if that were obvious to everyone. "Then there's your brother. Your phone-" As if on command, John pulled it out of his pocket and placed it face down on table, just as he remembered doing yesterday, "-it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're older, you wouldn't waste money on this- you're sensible, plain, as judged by your attire. It's a gift, then. Scratches- not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, because you're a careful one- your so-called 'limp,' for example, the cane is more of a safety item- so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already." His eyes flickered to the phone, and John averted his gaze from Sherlock to it as well. On the back was an engraving, scratched in roughly by something sharp: _Clara Smith + Harry Watson xxx._

"The engraving?" John wondered, urging him to go on. Sherlock then began gesturing to the phone with every detail he pointed out.

"Harry Watson- clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father- this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but it's unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, because you have few contacts that I had observed while you were on the device. So brother it is. Now, Clara- who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. The childishness of the scratched in message, obviously made by a knife, says it's a girlfriend, particularly a younger one. Must've scratched it in recently- this model's only six months old. Relationship in trouble, then- six months on, possibly more, and he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it- he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to constantly read the engraving- to feel guilt? Most likely. The recent move was for your health, and caused the breakup. Harry had to leave her. The fact that he wanted you to feel guilt says you've got problems with each other. Only other evidence of problems would be his drinking."

Drinking? God, Harry was 14- how did Sherlock even know about that? "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smirked slightly, proud of his correct deduction. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection- tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them."

John gaped at him with big cobalt eyes. "That..." Sherlock began to run through possibilities. Was wrong (which is wrong). Scary. Creepy. Insane. Freakish. He had heard them all before- to be honest, such unintelligent insults didn't bother him in the slightest. He was used to all the name calling, teasing, bullying, and rumors- he didn't need friends, anyway. John was probably just like them. He had sat with Sally and bloody _Anderson_ at lunch yesterday, so of course he wasn't open to be his friend. They would've poured lies and assumptions and opinions into his stupid brain by then- and he would believe them. Because he was just like everyone-

"-was amazing." Amazing? Well. He certainly wasn't expecting that. He couldn't mask his surprise very well when his deducing skills were just called amazing. And not freakish. "You think so?" John nodded enthusiastically, a bright smile stretching across his face. "Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite...extraordinary." He was at loss for words. Sherlock chuckled in amusement. "That's not what people normally say."

John couldn't believe his ears. His skills were amazing- though he could understand why people reacted so negatively, Sherlock had an absolutely amazing talent, and he couldn't see why he was the only one so impressed by it. "What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off!'" Sherlock exclaimed, mimicking bloody _Anderson_. John began giggling, a pitch much higher than his normal voice, and Sherlock couldn't help but giggle himself at the blond's contagious laughter. He hadn't felt this happy in a long time, and with John amazed by his deduction, it seemed like he finally had a friend.

Not that he needed one. It just amused him. That's all.

Mrs. Hudson began to settle the boisterous class down, ready to start her lesson, preventing the two from continuing their conversation. Sherlock rolled his sea green eyes at the elementary concept she began speaking about, and went back to recording in his Observations Notebook.

_John Watson is an interesting character. He isn't like bloody Anderson or Sally. He's kind and very interested in my deducing. He has problems very similar to me, too- he just doesn't know about mine yet. Not sure if he'll stick around long enough to learn. But it's definitely something different._

* * *

"Did I get anything wrong?"

Chemistry had just finished and the partners were weaving their way through crowds of students. Sherlock had to slow down to stay with John's limp, but he honestly didn't mind- his next class was close, although he didn't care if he was late or not.

As John spoke, Sherlock looked down to him- he was about a head shorter if he would stand up straight and realize his limp was psychosomatic. "Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago. And Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock was excited. Getting nothing wrong was a huge leap, even for him. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

He felt bad for having to rain in his parade. He shook his head slowly. "Harry's short for Harriet." Sherlock's smile faded instantly, and his shoulders slumped. "Harry's your sister." Then, thoughtfully, Sherlock brought his pressed-together palms to his chin. John chuckled, surveying the area that he suddenly didn't recognize. "Where are we going?" Sherlock wasn't listening to him, though. "Sister!"

"No, seriously, where are we going?" John repeated. Sherlock still didn't hear. "There's always something."

At lunch, John sat with Sherlock, who had a whole table to himself. He noticed Sherlock had no food in front of him, just a book about...

"Fungi?" John questioned, reading over his shoulder. Sherlock nodded once. "Experiment." John situated himself beside him. "Why aren't you eating?"

Sherlock smirked slightly. "You must of not tasted the food yet." John returned an amused smile before grimacing at the sight of the fish and chips on his tray- it looked absolutely revolting. "And I don't think I plan to." he muttered, shoving the "food" away. Sherlock chuckled, the noise low and dark. "Wise choice. If you're at all concerned about my eating habits, we'll go eat right after school. At Angelo's."

John seemed willing for a moment, and then became crestfallen. "Oh, I don't have the pounds to go out and eat. And I'm not going to make you pay for me."

"Neither do I. It'll be on the house- trust me." Sherlock informed with a smile. John couldn't help but return his grin. "Alright." Why he suddenly trusted a man that was practically a stranger to him, and who was rumored "mad" and "a psychopath" (even though he didn't believe those things at all), after almost a year of trusting no one was beyond his knowledge. He couldn't help but feel a bond forming between them, though- with Sherlock, he didn't feel alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**A/N- I said I was using some lines from the series...but you'll notice that the restaurant scene is altered, yet familiar. I watched the original, unaired pilot. Oh my God. 10x better. I highly recommend watching it.**

**I also used this because I believe it captures the teenage aspect better. **

* * *

Angelo's was a nice, busy Italian restaurant, and John suddenly wasn't so sure that Sherlock could get free meals for the both of them. As they stepped inside, the smell of garlic slapped John in the face, and he was glad the restaurant was noisy so Sherlock wouldn't hear his growling stomach.

"Hello, Billy." Sherlock greeted a worker, and showed himself into the restaurant. Billy nodded back at him.

_So Sherlock is a regular?_

As they sat at a clean, empty table, a large man with a beard approached them. As he spoke, he shook Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock! Anything on the menu. What ever you want, free." Oh. So that was how Sherlock was so sure they would get free food. "All on the house, you and your date." His voice was heavily accented in Italian, and he looked at John knowingly as he said "date."

John stared at the strange waiter in disbelief. Did he really have any business approaching them and assuming John was his date? They could very well be mates. Partner's for a project. Brothers, or cousins! Well. Obviously this man knew Sherlock and neither of those were true. But still. They sure as hell weren't dating. They were barely acquaintances for God's sake! "I'm not his date." he informed him.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and John looked at him with wide, curious eyes, anticipating his reply. But then the waiter decided to speak before him, and Sherlock shut his mouth. John studied his face and he almost seemed...possibly relieved, but then again maybe it was his imagination. Sherlock was practically blank on the outside all the time.

Chuckling, he wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "This man. He got me off a murder charge." John wasn't sure he heard that right. Murder charge? Sherlock helped him? Sherlock was...what? Sixteen? And this man was around fifty. He sent Sherlock a questioning look, silently telling him to explain.

Sherlock did so. "This is Angelo. About a year ago, I successfully proved to Inspector Lestrade- Greg's father- that at the time of a particularly vicious triple-murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of town- carjacking." Angelo nodded enthusiastically alongside Sherlock, as if his head bobbing would make John believe the story more.

_Oh. Carjacking. Of course. Because that is so much better. _

_But it is better than a triple-murder. _

Angelo smiled broadly, pointing from Sherlock to himself. "He cleared my name!" He released his hold on the young man.

"I cleared it a bit." Sherlock corrected without breaking eye contact with the blond across the table.

"Anything on the menu, I cook it for you, myself." Angelo offered with full gratitude, eyeing John constantly. John was too nice to say anything about the man slightly scaring him with his constant glancing. Was he hinting at something?

Sherlock nodded with a faint smile. "Thank you, Angelo." Angelo replied in a manner that said, _No, thank you. _"If not for you-" He again glanced at John, staring into his eyes as if to assure him that he wasn't kidding, "I would've gone to prison." Sherlock realized the error in that statement, and stared up at his friend with wide eyes. "You did go to prison." John followed in suit with Sherlock, much more alarmed at this fact.

Angelo rapidly glanced between both men nervously. Sherlock was aware of his unusual behavior, even if John wasn't. And with Sherlock being a genius and all, that was bad. "I'll get you a candle for the table." He regained his composure, wiggled his eyebrows at John, and grinned teasingly. "It's more romantic."

"I'm not his date!" John declared almost angrily as Angelo turned away to grab menus. After placing them in front of the two, he stalked away.

Oh well. So much for the impression he was trying to set for Sherlock. Maybe he should just stay out of romantic affairs from now on. But he couldn't help it when Sherlock finally had someone!

John sighed and picked up his menu, reading over it. Why hadn't Sherlock corrected Angelo by now? They weren't dating.

Sherlock almost spoke again, but then decided against it to remain as unsuspicious as possible. He wasn't good with relationships anyway- not that he was in one with John, but he certainly didn't want to deny it incorrectly and draw even more notice to the rumored couple. Closing his mouth, he picked up his menu and placed it on the edge of the table. John noticed out of his peripheral vision. Looking up at Sherlock, he questioned, "Are you going to eat?" He was only somewhat serious at first, thinking that surely his companion was going to eat at least.

"What day is it?" Sherlock countered. John stared at him with a disbelieving look. "It's Wednesday." Sherlock practically waved off his reply. "I'm okay for a bit."

"You haven't eaten toda- for God's sake, you need to eat!" John exclaimed, knowing how unhealthy it was not to eat- he wanted to be a doctor, after all. No wonder Sherlock was so deathly thin- did he eat on a weekly basis?

"No, you need to eat. I need to think. The brain's what counts. Everything else is transport." Sherlock corrected, and stared at the wall in order to accomplish his task.

_Then why did you invite me to eat with you? _John thought bitterly. But Angelo was back, which snapped John out of his thoughts. Angelo set a candle in the shape of a wine bottle in the middle of the two and then lit it, which remained unnoticed by John as he resumed pondering over what to eat. Then the two were alone again. "You might consider refueling." John remarked. He finally noticed the candle now bored a dancing flame, and stared at it in slight horror. Without a word, he went back to reading the menu, still undecided.

Well. If he was going to be here, and friends with the strange teenager, he might as well get to know him.

"So. Do you have a girlfriend, who feeds you up sometimes?" Sherlock stared at John. He couldn't really help himself. He had no idea what was so different about this boy that made him feel like he mattered for the first time. He needed to figure it out. They had just met yesterday, and taking him out to dinner had just made everything more confusing instead of clear.

"Is that what girlfriends do? 'Feed you up?'" he asked, slightly disgusted. If that were the case, he never wanted a girlfriend. Humans could survive five days without food, so he ate every other day, sometimes skipping two or three when he really needed to ponder over things. A female constantly badgering him to eat would be mentally exhausting and impossible to deal with. Digesting just slowed him down. No one else esteemed to understand that.

_Then again, anyone else is an idiot. _

John stared into his eyes for a moment before speaking, noticing that any staring was into the other's eyes. "You don't have a girlfriend, then."

"It's not really my area."

"Hm." John switched his attention back to the menu. _Okay. So he's not into girls. Wait. Does that mean-? _He looked back up to Sherlock in sudden realization. "Oh! Right." He unconsciously carried out the "R".

Sherlock studied John as he continued cautiously, "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, in complete shock. Was John coming onto him?

John immediately noticed his discomfort. _Oh, God, he's gay. And I sound like I have a problem with it. _

Quickly, to make up for his accidental use of discomfort, he assured him, "Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

"So you don't have a boyfriend then." Immediately after John, Sherlock replied, "No." while shaking his head.

"Fine. Okay. So, unattached, like me." Awkwardness settled over the two as John averted his gaze from him to the table. "Good." God, he was horrible at making conversation with Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes darted everywhere but John, analyzing every possible meaning for his sudden interest in his sexuality.

...So he _was_ hitting on him. Great. No wonder John had such an interest in him. He had a crush. A male Molly Hooper.

"John...you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and, while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for-"

John's eyes grew big in sudden realization, and he attempted to cut Sherlock off. "No-"

"-any kind of-"

"No, no." John succeeded in shutting him up, and he leaned in closer and lowered his voice, warmth spreading over his face in embarrassment. "I wasn't asking you out, no." He breathed out a single laugh at the absurd idea of dating a male when he was obviously straight. "I'm just saying. It's all...fine. Whatever...takes your..." He looked up, racking his brain for the right words- he wanted Sherlock to know that he meant that he was okay with whatever sexual preference he was, but the words weren't forming right. "boat- I'm gonna shut up now." He shook his head at his own stupidity and picked up the menu to avoid any further awkward eye contact.

"I think that's for the best." Sherlock agreed while nodding once to highlight his statement. He was relieved that John didn't have such feelings.

The silence that fell upon them only lasted a few minutes before John tried to get a conversation going again. Sherlock blinked in slight frustration as he did, almost successfully going into deep thought until he was disturbed.

"So! You don't...do...anything?"

"Everything else is _transport_." Sherlock repeated slowly, not bothering to even look at John now- besides, something had caught his attention in the mirror's reflection of the outside world through the window.

John nodded silently, done trying to strike up a conversation.

* * *

Finally, after Sherlock's obnoxiously loud tapping annoyed him to the point of yelling, John took a bite of his food before questioning him. "What are you staring at?"

"The group across the street." John leaned to the side to look out the window. There were about five teenagers, all clad in black and leather, pointing to the restaurant and talking amongst themselves.

"What about them?" he questioned sitting upright and eyeing him. Sherlock's tapping halted, and he stared at John with wide eyes. "Let's just say they're not my biggest fans." John glanced at the group again and noticed they had started toward the restaurant. Sherlock visibly tensed as he muttered a curse. "Shit."

Panicking settling into his stomach, John scooted back a little, sitting on the edge of his chair in case they needed to make a fast break. "Why, Sherlock, are they not your fans?"

Sherlock readjusted himself as well. "I may have insulted their intelligence and embarrassed them in front of a group of females that they particularly enjoyed."

_Of course._ "Damn it, Sherlock!" John really didn't feel like fighting a bunch of gang members, even if he knew he could take one down if he wanted to.

The door opened and the group stepped in, boots tapping loudly against the floor. Sherlock attempted to duck his head away from the leader, who was tall and muscular with pale blonde hair shaved on the sides, but he slapped a hand on his shoulder. "Hey guys, look who we found." Sherlock glared up at him. "Sebastian Moran. How is the single life going?"

John glared at him, frightened. "Sherlock!" he hissed.

Another member clapped John's shoulder, smirking wildly. "Oh look, Boss, Sherly's got himself a girlfriend!" John pulled away from the member harshly, blood boiling within his veins. "I'm not his _bloody_ girlfriend." he growled. They all laughed in mockery. "Oh, looks like she's got a mouth on her!"

"What do you want?" Sherlock wondered, picking at his nails to purposely seem bored and to infuriate Sebastian even further. _John_ was about to punch Sherlock _himself._

Sebastian was not amused. He gripped Sherlock's collar and pulled him out of his seat. "Oh, I think you know. How does revenge sound?"

Another member suddenly pulled John into a choke hold and out of his seat. John attempted to pull at his arms ease the pressure, but the guy was strong. Sherlock looked rather alarmed as he stared at John. Then, he nodded ever so slightly, and John did too- unspoken communication. They had a plan- get released and run.

So Sherlock spat into Sebastian's face and John kicked the other in the groin and they both sprinted out, ducking under grabbing limbs as they did so. "This way!" Sherlock shouted, and John followed him. He was fast, but Sherlock had longer legs and it was difficult to keep up with him. The gang was rather close behind as well, and Sherlock was making sudden turns without warning and jumping on trash cans and over walls and gates agilely. John was a little more clumsy, but he made it over easier than the gang that chased them.

His heart was in his head and he was panting heavily, but they were still being followed and he had no idea where to go- Sherlock had lived here longer than he had, so he just stuck to running after them, praying that they could stop soon.

John halted as he met a long, empty alleyway. Where was Sherlock? Did he make a wrong turn? He fell against the wall to catch his breath, awaiting a sign that Sherlock was near. But there was only the sound of his labored breathing and the cars on the streets of London.

* * *

John was gone.

Sherlock didn't know how he lost him, but he did, and now he was alone in a darkened alley, facing a brick wall that was impossible to climb without any objects to propel himself off of. Panting heavily, he turned to find another way and was nailed in the stomach by a hard fist. With a loud groan, Sherlock doubled over and fell onto the cold, damp cement.

"Where's your boyfriend now, Sherlock?" Sebastian taunted, stepping on Sherlock's chest violently. Sherlock cried out in pain, coughing as his lungs struggled to gain oxygen.

"Oh, I think I know- my boys have probably captured him by now, and he's getting what he deserves. You see, Sherlock?" He increased the pressure, and Sherlock gasped for air, black infinity beginning to surround his eyes- he was about to pass out. "John!" he tried, but he barely had a voice and couldn't even hear himself. Sebastian chuckled darkly. "This is why you can't have friends."

Then Sebastian was on the ground with a bloody nose and Sherlock could breathe again- he rapidly gulped air, the darkness fading from his vision. He was then helped up, and saw that John had found him. He grinned and nodded at him and then threw another punch at Sebastian, nailing his temple, as he tried to attack. The rest of the gang approached, and it was four against two as Sebastian fell to the ground, unconscious. The back two gasped in horror at their fallen leader, took one last glimpse at Sherlock and John, and cowardly fled.

"Hey! Come back and fight like men!" one of the remaining ones shouted angrily as he turned away. Sherlock took this moment to land a nice punch on his jaw, sending him down. John gaped at Sherlock, not believing that he had that much strength. "Fantastic!" His legs were then knocked out from under him. He caught himself and kicked his attacker in the shins to get him away so he could stand. Sherlock dodged a kick to the stomach by a hair and grabbed the boy's ankle. "Do you know you do that out loud?" he called to John, twisting the ankle, causing the victim to cry out in pain. Sherlock shoved him back and he crashed onto the cement. The other one finally rose after getting kicked down and John ducked below a punch and kicked him in the groin (Again. Turns out it was he same one who had him in the choke hold earlier). "Sorry. I'll shut up." His victim fell to the ground, gripping his abdomen painfully while crying. John admired his work, not noticing the other coming at him. Sherlock quickly reached for him, grabbed a certain pressure point and the final member passed out onto the cement. He glanced at the blond, finally replying. "No, it's...fine." He grinned faintly. Sherlock wasn't going to admit that he enjoyed the compliments, but he certainly wasn't going to tell John to stop.

They quickly ducked into a different alley, knowing that they wouldn't be followed this time. They needed to catch their breath before they escaped entirely.

"That was really good." John panted, wiping blood onto his undershirt to avoid anyone from seeing it- as if there wasn't more blood on him elsewhere. He leaned against the wall and Sherlock followed suit. Holding his stomach, John continued, "That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done."

"Well I am sure kicking one of Sebastian's gang in the testicles twice would require you to have some of your own." John giggled his high-pitched laugh and Sherlock chuckled darkly, and he couldn't help but compare how John was like day and he was like night.

"Are you alright?" John wondered with concern. Sherlock nodded once, rubbing his chest. "A little sore, but I'll live."

Distant sirens then caught both of their attentions. They exchanged glances, grinning at each other excitedly, even though they hadn't the slightest idea if the sirens were because of the fight. They both enjoyed the adrenaline rush they had just endured, though, and honestly didn't mind having one again.

"Have you caught your breath?" Sherlock inquired. John nodded in reply. "Ready when you are." He was still somewhat breathless, but he followed Sherlock away from the area, sprinting in the direction away from the danger.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**A/N- Gah. I don't really like this chapter...I'm sorry if you don't. UGH. And I'm sorry it took so long too! But it's here! :D**

* * *

As soon as John arrived home, he took a short, cold shower and put on fresh clothing. His dad was asleep in the living room, in his recliner, and that meant his mom was in the bedroom. His sister, as always, remained in her room. He was glad for this, for once- no one had to see him come home sweaty, bloody, and dead tired and question him. Otherwise he might not of been able to be friends with Sherlock anymore.

He entered the kitchen to get a bottle of water- running had dehydrated him. At the fridge, he reached for his right hand to receive his cane- but it wasn't there.

John stared down at his leg in pure shock. Then he walked around the island in the kitchen. One. Twice. Ran around it. Once. Twice. His leg was fine. Like he was never even injured.

Ecstatic, he wished he could prove to someone that he was okay- or at least tell Sherlock he was right (Through text? Did he even have a phone? Maybe he could get his number too). But he would have to wait until tomorrow.

_Oh, I'm sure he's already noticed. Him and his deducing._

For the first time in over a year, John felt alive, exhilarated. Happy. He just wanted to scream it to the world, too. And this was all because of one very strange boy- Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock entered the mansion- he would say his home but it certainly didn't feel as such- and went into the kitchen to make some tea. He found Mycroft, his older brother of 21, sitting at the table, typing away on his laptop.

He looked up to acknowledge Sherlock, and then turned into parent-Mycroft, much to Sherlock's dismay.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell did you do?" Sherlock shrugged as he turned on the kettle. "I got into a fight."

Mycroft closed his lifeline. "I thought you were with that new fellow."

"I was. Sebastian and his group attacked us. John and I kicked their arses."

"Language, Sherlock." Mycroft warned. Sherlock, still faced away from him, smirked in amusement before turning to him with a serious face. "Bloody. Fucking. Hell. Damn it." Mycroft sighed heavily. "Oh, very mature, Sherlock. Very mature." Sherlock nodded once and returned his attention back to the kettle.

After an extended silence, Mycroft's annoying voice pierced Sherlock's ears again, and he nearly cringed. "So. Five against two? And you won?" he questioned, as surprised as he could possibly be. Sherlock rolled his eyes, now a habit around his brother. "Two retreated. Also, John's father was part of the military. I'm sure back before John was shot they trained together. John's a lot stronger than he appears." With an annoyed glare, that was meant to order Mycroft to bugger off, he growled, "And so am I."

"Never said you weren't strong." Mycroft claimed, raising his hands in defense. Sherlock was always so uptight an defensive about the smallest things, especially when it came to him. Mycroft knew exactly why, but that was to remain unspoken of. Possibly forever.

Sherlock was elated that his tea was almost done. He was sick of even breathing the same air as the male in front of him. "You're thinking it. You're wondering how I can survive and be fit when I only eat every once in a while." The kettle began to screech. _Thank God._

Mycroft nodded in slight defeat, but mostly agreement. "You do need to eat." Sherlock fixed his tea as needed in his cup in a rage. "And you need to diet. Piss off." He grabbed his finished drink and stalked off rather loudly.

Mycroft sighed heavily, opening his laptop back up. Upon hearing a slam of a door, he rolled his eyes and began his mission.

Sebastian would never bother his little brother again, if he had anything to say about it.

_Or his new friend, _he added with consideration, _that has stuck around for two days, nearly three, and is still around after a battle with a gang and Sherlock's...intolerable ways._

Smiling, he planned his second mission in his head while carrying out his first.

* * *

After finishing his tea, Sherlock cleaned himself up with a short shower and proceeded to stare at his bare self in the mirror. On his chest was a forming bruise in the shape of Sebastian's boot. It was darkening and if he moved a certain way his chest protested rather painfully. Another emerging bruise covered his stomach, and his back ached from when he fell.

_Well, that'll hurt in the morning._

After clothing himself, he crawled carefully into his bed and pulled out his phone. He quickly fired off a much delayed text to Angelo.

_John forgot about his cane. May you deliver it to my home when possible? -SH_

Below he typed out his address.

_I'll drop it off as soon as I can. How bad does he need it?_

With a triumphant smirk, he replied.

_Not very. SH_

* * *

John made sure to be early to Chemistry that day. He sprinted into room 221B to find Sherlock was the only other soul that occupied the room. He laid on his back on a cleaned off lab table, staring at the ceiling tiles with a bored-looking expression.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, "I'm not-" Sherlock cut him off before he could finish. "I informed you that your limp was psychosomatic, yet you doubted my intellect. But yes. Congratulations. Your cane is in under the table when you wish to retrieve it." He sounded unamused, and it sort of upset John. Sighing, he took a seat and slumped over, bringing out his phone to play more Tetris. _Stupid Sherlock. Of course he wouldn't care. He's a genius and doesn't need to feel any emotions because they're a weakness._

"You're upset." Sherlock noted, ripping his gaze from the ceiling and turning his attention to the blond.

"No shit, Sherlock." John muttered darkly. Sherlock sat up, wincing as his wounds protested against movement. "Why?" John nearly threw his phone down in frustration as he snapped his head up to stare him down. "Considering I've had a limp from being shot for about a year and I just figured out I could walk on it again because of _you_, and _you_ don't even bloody care, that's kind of upsetting. I know that's hard for you to understand-"

"No. I'm sorry." Sherlock apologized quietly, and sheepishly averted his gaze from the ocean blue eyes he was beginning to stare into more often for some strange reason. They were beautiful, though, deep and caring with little loop patterns outlining the pupil.

"-and I- …what did you say?" John questioned, flabbergasted that he heard those words exit his mouth…no, the _way_ he heard those words. They were filled with so much emotion; he was almost convinced that Sherlock hadn't uttered a word to him, and it was his imagination.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before looking back at him. "Honestly, John, you have ears, so you obviously heard me. I do hate repeating myself."

Grinning, John replied, "It's alright." He reached under the table to pull out his cane. It looked so foreign now, after being away from it for a couple hours. Like it was a brand new concept.

"I should care. It is remarkable how you are now able to walk normally." What the bloody hell was wrong with him?! _Caring is a disadvantage._ He repeated those words through his mind, while simultaneously questioning himself- _What is the matter with me? Three days with John and he's already completely changed how I feel._

_Maybe having a friend isn't the best idea..._

Then he felt a slight ache in his chest. He couldn't deny it to himself- he was tired of feeling alone, and now that he had John to change that, there was no turning back.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a cup of coffee, and then froze when she saw the two sitting there, so early for class.

"Sherlock, off the table. My classroom is not your lounging area." Sherlock replied with a roll of his sea green eyes and jumped off the table, only to wince as both his bruises pulsated in response.

This time, John noticed. "Sherlock? Are you okay?" Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Of course. Just a little sore from yesterday." John opened his mouth to protest, but other students began to file into the room. Sherlock carefully sat on the stool, forcing himself not to flinch at the pain. It was useless, though- John could see right through him.

"Sherlock, if you need medical attention-" John was interrupted, but surprisingly not by a protest.

"You want to be a doctor?" Sherlock inquired curiously, head titling to the side. John noted how much he looked like an innocent puppy like that, and then shoved those thoughts out of his mind. Puppy? _Sherlock? _He must of got less sleep than he thought.

Blushing shyly at the discovery, he pushed his fingers through his hair and chuckled uneasily. "Yeah. Or go into the army. I haven't decided yet. Maybe be an army doctor."

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about, John. We all have our dreams. No matter how silly and impossible or normal they are."

"Then what do you want to do?"

"I already do it." John raised an eyebrow at him. "But aren't you sixteen? Any job should be at McDonald's or something." Sherlock's face faded into its normal blankness as he once again shut John out. "I'm fifteen. Skipped third year."

John gaped at him. "Then what are you doing?" His question remained unanswered as Sherlock ignored him and other kids entered the room. Sighing, he put away his phone and prepared for the lesson he knew he wouldn't be able to pay attention to.

* * *

Other than Sherlock, Sarah and her group of friends were the first to point out his miracle.

"John!" she called out to him. He halted at the sound of his name and turned. The brown haired girl was with Mike, Greg, and Molly, and they were all grinning at him. Thankful that Anderson and Sally were no where to be found, he returned a smile and complied to Sarah's beckoning. She gestured to all of him excitedly, and John chuckled.

"Where's the cane?" wondered Greg, only remembering that much about him. He had been upset that day, so mingling was out of the question at the time.

"I just don't need it anymore." John replied secretively. He wasn't going to explain his afternoon with Sherlock. It wasn't any of their business and he didn't know if he could exactly trust any of them.

"Ever since you befriended Sherlock, you guys have been acting different- you're both noticeably happier, and now you're not limping anymore." Molly pointed out. John was taken aback- they had only known each other for three days, but Molly was right.

"Well. Maybe because we actually understand each other." John guessed, not exactly understanding it himself.

"You understand Sherlock?" Molly gasped, eyes huge. Mike then nudged Greg and they snickered quietly at their unspoken communication. Sarah smiled faintly, but she seemed unamused. John almost asked her what was wrong, but he was more interested in the guy's joke. "What's so funny about that?"

"Greg and I were talking how you and Sherlock would be a cute couple." Mike admitted with a wide grin. Greg shrugged, rubbing the back of his head bashfully.

John's face grew hot and red. "C-couple?" he exclaimed through a stutter. "N-no! Sherlock and I are friends!" After a small pause, he added, "I think."

"During Chemistry today, I overheard you two talking about going to Angelo's after school yesterday," Mike stated, "On a date."

In pure frustration, John pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, guys...it wasn't a date. Sherlock knew Angelo personally, and we both didn't plan on eating the school food. We went there for free, because we were hungry. And so we could learn more about each other. That's all." John explained. The guys exchanged amused glances and then burst out laughing, hurrying away. John glared rather annoyed after them, then sighed frustratedly before turning to Molly and Sarah.

"I'm sorry about them. They're idiots sometimes." Molly apologized, genuinely sorry. John smiled weakly. "It's alright. Not your fault."

"So, John? Can you sit with us today?" Sarah wondered, twirling a lock of her hair that she had curled for the day around her finger. John thought about it for a moment. He did like the group (sometimes, and with the exception of Anderson and Sally), but he honestly would rather of sat with Sherlock. Feeling bad for telling them no, he ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry. I want to. But I'm going to sit with Sherlock." Sarah's smile fell, and then was replaced with a fake one. "Oh. Okay. That's okay. Maybe some other time." She then waved and turned on her heal before hurrying away.

Guilt flooded John's being. Maybe he should sit with them today-

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed from behind him. John turned to him quickly, surprised that they were on speaking terms during school yet outside of Chemistry.

Molly jumped at Sherlock's sudden approach, and a blush formed on her face. "Hi, Sherlock." She waved sheepishly with a small smile.

Sherlock didn't even notice the poor girl. "Sebastian will most likely never bother us again." He grimaced at the idea. "Though I didn't ask for assistance, I received it anyway."

"That's great," said John, "Who assisted you?"

"Let's just say I have strong ties with the British government." Sherlock seemed somewhat aggravated at this fact. John eyed him but questioned him no further. If _he_ had ties with the government, though, he would be delighted.

"Come along, John. I have much else to tell you in about three minutes and standing here won't help you get to class any faster." He then stalked off, expecting John to follow.

John glanced at Molly, staying right where he was. "Sherlock, the least you could do is talk to Molly. She's a nice girl." Sherlock froze in mid-step and then whirled around.

"N-no, it's okay..." Molly stammered quietly, her cheeks dark with a blush. "B-bye, John. Sherlock." She sped away, dodging taller students as she retreated.

John glared at Sherlock disapprovingly. "You see what you do? She's just tying to be nice. She likes you!"

"All the more reason not to speak to her. Her affections are distracting."

"Have you never liked someone before?"

"No. Caring is a disadvantage." John rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable." They began their journey down the hall, talking of nonsense and Sherlock's oddities, and forgetting of alternative seatings at lunch.

* * *

John was planning on going straight home that day after yesterday's events, but as he walked out of the school, he received a strange text from a private number.

_I see you've taken a liking to Sherlock. It's time we meet. -MH_

Below it was an address.

John's eyebrows furrowed together as he read the message and then reread it. Who was MH? A relative of Sherlock? His initials were SH, so it was possible. But then again, it could've been pure coincidence.

_Who is this?_

_You'll figure it out soon enough. Oh, and don't tell Sherlock. He won't enjoy us communicating. -MH_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**A/N- I am so bad at describing things. And I honestly don't know how so many people like this story. But I thank you all! You're all lovely! ^_^**

* * *

John gaped with wide blue eyes at the 10-feet tall iron gates that separated him from the mansion. It was old, grey in color, and had many windows. The front of the square structure was a half-cylinder that marked the front entrance and the top of it seemed to be one balcony of several. Stakes protruded from the top edge, giving the mansion a deadly look. Many columns, some lined with ivy, held the structure in place, a few of them three times John's size. Stone arches lined the rest of the bottom. The door and windows were lined in black iron. Lastly, the roof was a maroon color, contrasting with the grey color.

It looked dark, eerie, and from Shakespeare's century.

It looked amazing.

The gates proceeded to open slowly, creaking in protest as they allowed entrance. John cautiously walked down the winding driveway, nervous and slightly frightened. He had no idea who's home this was- although he had an idea- or what would be waiting for him behind the double-doors.

He didn't even have to knock. As he lifted his fist to do so, a young girl with curled brunette hair and eyes that resembled to richness of dark chocolate opened the door. John noticed how cute she was, and as if she read his mind, she smiled teasingly and shook her head. "He's inside." She turned and seemed to float away. John entered and shut the door behind him, examining every aspect of the place with more caution. But with ivory marble flooring and elegant furniture, it was difficult to not be breathless.

"Ah, Mr. Watson," a cool, calm voice called from a different room. John followed the sound and entered the kitchen. A young man in a suit with dark, slicked back hair grinned as he entered. "I've heard much about you, and your leg. Please, sit, if you must." John felt violated and offended. Who was this bloke and what did he want with him?

"I'll stand, thanks." John snapped. The stranger nodded calmly. "Suit yourself. Would you like anything to eat or drink?"

"I would like to know who you are and why you asked me to be meet you here."

He chuckled quietly. "Ah, you're very straight forward. Alright then. I am Mycroft, and I asked you to meet me here on account of Sherlock."

John raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. "Sherlock? Why do you have such an interest in him?"

"Ah, but I am wondering the same about you." Mycroft dodged John's question. Resting his joined hands on the table, he continued, ignoring John's irritated glare. "You see, Sherlock is nearly intolerable. He hardly eats or sleeps, is extremely rude, and doesn't make the greatest first impression. But you both seem to like each other- Sherlock hasn't had a friend since his third year. He doesn't simply _have_ friends. He doesn't like having them around. But _you_ can deal with him. You have the patience not even I or our parents have- yes, I am his older brother. And we don't exactly see eye to eye." Well, he was right about Mycroft being related to Sherlock. But of course they didn't get along. Sherlock didn't really with anyone, though.

"Why?" John inquired, leaning against the wall.

Mycroft shook his head. "No one speaks of it." he replied vaguely. John sighed. All the secrets were getting old fast.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, "So, where are your parents and Sherlock?"

"My parents are a part of the British Government." Now the Sebastian incident made sense. "They are hardly ever home, and when they are, they still don't have much time for either of us. Sherlock is at violin practice."

_Violin? Sherlock plays an instrument? Someone is willing to teach him? I wonder how good he is at it..._

"So that's how Sebastian now has to leave us alone." John rationalized.

"Actually, that was me." Mycroft corrected with an amused grin. He was...happy John was wrong? _Prick_. "I work for the British government as well. I just have a less strict schedule so I can keep an eye on my little brother. But even sometimes I can't do so- that's where you come in."

"Me?" John pointed to himself with his thumb, eyes round with surprise.

"Yes. All I ask is for you to watch him and keep him out of trouble. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid or reckless. Will you do that for me?" What was he, a baby sitter? But he guessed he could empathize for the older Holmes brother. Sherlock was...difficult. And John seemed to be the closest one to him that could also deal with him.

But he liked Sherlock- he was interesting and fun at times and his deducing skills were brilliant. He didn't have to force himself to complete Mycroft's request- he honestly didn't mind much. "I've...already got onto him for that. So I'll do it. But not for you. For Sherlock." He didn't like the fact that Mycroft was basically using him, though.

"Fine. I thank you. I do worry about him, although he cannot stand me in the slightest." _Wonder why_, John thought bitterly.

"Yeah. Well. I best be going." He had to get home, and Mycroft was irritating him more and more with every word he said. At least he was genuinely worried about his younger brother.

I think.

"Of course." Mycroft walked him to the front door, quickly kissing the girl who let him in on the way there. He felt a little disappointed, but it wasn't like he actually had a chance with her anyway. She had made that clear.

John's hand was on the door handle when Mycroft spoke again. "John?" He turned instead of replying, giving him most of his attention. The other segment of it was devoted to Sherlock.

"I wouldn't tell Sherlock about our meeting. He might get angry." Mycroft warned him. John chuckled, rolling his blue eyes to the ceiling before looking back at him. "As if he won't figure it out anyway." With that, he walked out of the mansion, down the driveway, and past the iron gates that allowed him to exit.

* * *

Chemistry. Now the class seemed to be his favorite of the day. He liked Science in general, but Sherlock made it much more interesting. He found 1st and 2nd periods dragging on and on as he stared at the clock, waiting for 3rd. Waiting to see Sherlock.

His friend.

He hurried down the hall and into the room, murmuring a "hello" to Mrs. Hudson before approaching Sherlock. Today, he simply rested his elbows on the table, palms pressed to each other as his fingertips rested against his lips. His eyes were closed.

Taking a seat, John studied him for a bit longer before saying anything. "Sherlock?"

"You were at my house last night." he replied immediately, almost interrupting him. John nodded slowly, not able to tell if he was angry about this or not. "I was. How did you figure it out?"

"Other than the fact that Mycroft was completely obvious and told me everything just by looking at me...your smell." he explained, eyes still hidden behind eyelids, hands in the same position. John was taken aback. His pale eyebrows furrowed together as he leaned back slightly. "My smell?"

"Yes. Aftershave, cologne, which you shouldn't wear because it hides your natural smell. It's musky. Also, a slight hint of cigar smoke. Not you, you don't smoke. You know the hazards. It's your father that does so." John chuckled in amusement. "Wow. You've memorized my smell. You know, others would find that creepy."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and his head turned to stare John down. He felt his breath catch in his throat- his eyes reflected the sun that shone through the window, creating a rainbow of colors within his irises. It was beautiful.

_Whoa. Uh, Sherlock's a guy, John. Keep that in mind._

_...his eyes _are_ amazing, though._

"Others are idiots. You don't think it's creepy." Sherlock deduced. John shook his head in reply. "Not really. I'm used to you and your antics."

"Yet we met approximately 96 hours ago. That's strange. Even for me." Sherlock noted with a small smirk.

"Well. I guess I'm attracted to strange." John replied without thinking. Sherlock raised both eyebrows at this statement questioningly, and then John realized what he had sounded like he meant. Blushing heavily, he quickly stammered out a reply. "N-no. Not like that. I meant-"

"I'm aware of what you meant." Sherlock interrupted, looking away from him. He resumed his thinking position, reviewing every aspect about John. _Short yet strong. Kind yet brave. Understanding. No fashion sense with those horrid jumpers. Quiet at times, but talkative when he wants to be. Doesn't enjoy his family much. Troubled. Wants to be a doctor or a solider. Possibly both. Blond, messy hair. Bright blue eyes. Licks his lips when he's nervous. Like he just did._

"Oh, uh...okay."

"Shut up, I'm thinking." Sherlock ordered rather harshly. John complied, and Sherlock continued thinking for most of the period, even throughout the lesson. But like John was surprised.

Finally, near the end, Sherlock spoke, bringing his hands away from his face. "Alright. Considering you have been to my house, I'm going over to yours. Tonight." He smirked as the bell rang, gathered his stuff, and rushed off before John could protest.

Which John tried. He didn't want Sherlock at his house to meet his family! Besides, he doubted his parents would let Sherlock over, anyway...

* * *

"Oh! We would love to meet your new friend, Honey!" his mom gushed through the speaker of his phone. John was shocked to hear that- usually, his dad said no when he asked to invite a friend over, and his mom would agree because it was a school night. But it had been about a year since he asked, and with all that was going on, they were probably happy that he made a new friend.

Sherlock grinned at him after hearing his mom allow it. The two were at lunch, and John practically yelled at Sherlock in front of everyone before calling home to make sure it was alright.

After hanging up with his mom, he glared at the dark haired boy beside him. "If you want to keep going over to my house, you have to behave. That means no smartass comments or rude remarks. If my parents think you're a bad influence, they will make sure I don't hang around you anymore. And for the love of God, please eat what they cook. Got it?" Sherlock rolled his eyes with a heavy, annoyed sigh. "I'm not five, John."

"Well you act like it sometimes." To prove his statement, Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted. "Do not."

"Sure you don't." John muttered sarcastically.

"Why don't you want me over?" Sherlock wondered suddenly. John sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. He debated whether or not to tell him. He knew he would figure it out eventually, and he needed a warning for tonight just in case. "Because...well...my parents fight. A lot. And I don't want you to see that happen."

Sherlock blinked a few times, attempting to process the answer. And to process his wrong deduction. He hated it when he wasn't right. It bothered him, as his thoughts ridiculed him on how bad of a deducer he was. "Oh. Well. I was wrong."

John grinned, and nudged Sherlock's side with his elbow. Sherlock jumped, grateful that John didn't really notice or that he didn't realize that he was ticklish...

"The great Sherlock Holmes, admitting to being wrong? Is the world ending?"

"Oh, shut up!"

"No." John smirked. "Now, what were you wrong about?" Did Sherlock want to explain? Now that he thought more into depth about it, the assumption was rather stupid, although believable. "I...thought you were embarrassed of me." he admitted hesitantly.

"Oh, no! Definitely not." He wasn't the type to be embarrassed about being with others. True friends wouldn't act like that.

_God, I sound like a girl right about now._

He added to his previous statement. "Not unless you did something completely unusual and my parents forced you to leave."

Sherlock smirked in amusement, going through different scenarios of that idea, no doubt. "Hm. No promises."

"Sherlock!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**A/N- thank you The Red King and all my other guest reviewers as well! I wish you all had an account so I could reply to your review but that's okay C: just wanted to know that I acknowledged you guys and feel awesome that you're reading this!**

* * *

John nervously drummed his fingers against the table. His mom was cooking some sort of food, and though it smelled good, he felt slightly sick at the thought of eating- with Sherlock. He had no idea what time he would be over, but he did say he would text John when he was on his way.

Several questions swam through his mind: Would he screw their friendship up by saying something uncalled for? Would his parents argue? Would his sister embarrass him? Possibly his mom? Would Sherlock even _eat?_

It was the first time anyone had cooked in a while. Fighting, depression, injuries, stress- all components prevented the rarity from happening much.

Suddenly, his phone came to life as it rested on the table. John snatched it up quickly to read the text.

**I'll be there in 10 minutes. Stop being so nervous. I'll behave.**

_How did he- ? Never mind._

"Mum, he'll be here in ten minutes!" John informed, putting his phone away in his pocket quickly.

"Dinner won't be ready for another twenty, at least. Set the table before he gets here, please." Mrs. Watson requested. John set out placemats, a plate, a fork, a knife, and a glass at five of the six chairs in the dining room. He was still worried something would go wrong, even though Sherlock said he would behave. That didn't necessarily mean he would, and Harry would probably ruin everything for revenge.

John made a quick run to his room to make sure it looked decent. He was a tidy and neat person, but he did need to pick up and straighten a few things.

"John!" Harry yelled from across the house, "Your friend is here!"

Taking a deep breath, he walked into the living room. Sherlock stood there, admiring his surroundings. He still wore his outfit from school, which was a white dress shirt and black trousers. "Hm. Nice home." he hummed politely. John chuckled uneasily and raked his fingers through his hair. "Thanks. I'm sure you're just saying that."

"Oh, no. I do mean it." Sherlock responded, looking John dead in the eye as he turned his head. He lived in a mansion yet thought his home looked nice?

"God, John, your friend's a giraffe." Harry stated rudely, her arms folded as she stared up at him. Sherlock glared right back at her.

John joined Sherlock. "Harry! I'm sorry, Sherlock." he apologized.

"Quite alright. Not all of us can grow to be six-one." Sherlock smiled in mockery at Harry, and John choked back a laugh. Harry narrowed her eyes at her older brother. "Oh, shut up! You're short too!" She turned on her heel and stormed towards the kitchen. Sherlock grinned at John. "I said it nicely." he offered.

"Oh, she deserved that. It's quite alright."

"You must be Sherlock!" a deep voice exclaimed. Mr. Watson entered the room, and shook Sherlock's hand. They were relatively the same height. "Oh, aren't you a tall fellow? Good grip, too." He looked down at their handshake to highlight his point and pulled away. "Nice to meet you."

Sherlock nodded once politely. "And you." At the octave of his voice, Mr. Watson raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Wow. How old are you? Seventeen?" Knowing Sherlock's discomfort about his age, John muttered under his breath to warn his father. "Dad..."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John before flying back to his father. "Sixteen, sir." he lied smoothly. John eyed him but kept his mouth shut.

"John, why don't you show Sherlock around?" Mr. Watson suggested. Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Oh, yes. I would very much like to explore the rest of your home." John almost burst out laughing at his proper behavior. As he led him to his room, he looked up to him and smiled. "I'm impressed, Sherlock. You're an excellent actor."

"Oh, I was only acting about some things. I really do like your house." Sherlock admitted honestly. They entered John's small room, which was quite barren yet clean- white walls, a decent-sized bookshelf covered in seemingly boring books. A made bed with a camouflage comforter took up a corner of the room. A wooden desk took the other, unfinished homework (Algebra 2, 2 is wrong, as well as 5) sprawled out on it. Also sitting on it was a closed laptop and a green desk lamp. The closet was closed, as if off limits.

_He cleaned it before I arrived._

"And your room." Sherlock added.

John scoffed, not entirely sure he believed him. "Really? You live in a damn mansion and you think my house is cool?" Sherlock's place was much better than his. John's house needed some work, and was still strange and didn't feel much like his old home. He felt like he didn't even live there, that he just slept there every night and lived in his mind. School was beginning to feel like a place of residing.

"I'm one for simplicity. But yet, mine differs from other's. And I feel more...comfortable here. At home." Sherlock admitted, but he wasn't sure why. He blamed it on the acting and bringing up feelings- although most were fake- to the surface to impress John's family. That was the only logical explanation, after all.

He didn't mean to even refer to his parents and brother not making the house feel like a home, but he did.

And John caught on.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock cursed to himself. "Don't be. I'm being an idiot. Emotions are for the weak. Please, show me the rest of the house." He quickly made his way out of John's room, honestly ready for the night to be over so he could delete all of his feelings.

Again.

* * *

At the table, John's family was acting like a normal one. It was very strange- they were conversing happily, eating dinner together, smiling and laughing. Like nothing had ever happened.

"So, Sherlock. I've heard you had an interest in Science." Mr. Watson began, sneaking a quick glance at his son to reference him before looking back at Sherlock. He nodded in reply. "Indeed." He stared down at his food, and then looked up to meet John's gaze. Seeing the look in his eyes, he sighed quietly. He was thankful that he hasn't eaten in a while- he forgot to yesterday because of violin practice and then stupid Mycroft was being an annoying parent again. He took a bite and chewed carefully, actually enjoying the flavour. John smiled happily when he took a second bite.

"Will you peruse a career in it, then? As an scientist, or an astronomer, specifically? Something along the lines of that?" Mr. Watson continued to question. John knew why he was so concerned- he didn't want "the incident" to be repeated.

Sherlock innerly winced at the thought of space and the solar system and such. Who bloody cared? He deleted that information a long time ago. "Astronomy...is actually my weak point. I would like to be a detective." _I _am_ a detective._

"Oh, so you're into solving mysteries and such?" Mrs. Watson put in, wanting to be part of the conversation.

_Only when the case is a seven- a genuine mystery that isn't easy to figure out._

"Sometimes. I like challenges."

Mrs. Watson seemed like she approved. "Well, that's certainly a good job for that. John over here wants to be a doctor." She smiled at him, and then patted his shoulder in praise. Blushing sheepishly, John recoiled from her. "Mum..." he almost whined. Sherlock smirked in amusement at his embarrassment.

"Or a solider." Mr. Watson added proudly. John sunk down in his seat with a sigh, leaning on his hand while poking at his dinner with his fork.

And then Harry spoke, making everything worse. As usual. "When he was younger he wanted to be a giant! And now look where he's at. He's a hobbit." Sherlock laughed darkly, his form of a giggle. John nearly slammed his forehead into the table. His family was _not_ making a good impression of him.

"Harry! Be nice to your brother." Mrs. Watson scolded, and shot a glare at her laughing husband, who immediately halted under her formidability.

"Fiiine." Harry whined, pouting childishly. She took John's older position, slumping over more.

John was getting enough trouble from his family. Sherlock decided to fight back. Nicely. (Was that possible?) "Hm. Well, considering you wanted to be a princess, I would think wanting to be a giant is perfectly fine." John gaped at Sherlock for his comment, just as he did regularly when he did something without the concern for others.

Harry turned bright red. "How did you know?!" she sputtered, anger rising.

"I want to be a detective, remember? Plus, you've just told me." Sherlock grinned.

"Mum!" Harry exclaimed, looking to her mother for support.

But she didn't have it. Her mum was humored by Sherlock. "Oh, calm down, Dear. Sherlock is just playing around." John's look softened into a thankful smile. Sherlock gave a small nod in return.

"Of course he is." Mr. Watson agreed. "Nice work- you have potential." John could've jumped up on the table. His parents liked Sherlock. They trusted John's only friend.

"Thank you. But of course, as does your son." He was tired of talking about himself. "I had a bruise and he almost gave me another one to get a better look at it." The two exchanged mischievous grins.

"Oh, yes. John's been interested in the medical field for a long time, now. Haven't you, Dear?" Mrs. Watson questioned for reassurance.

"Yes, I have." John answered.

"And now without the cane, you have more freedom to pursue your ambitions." Sherlock pointed out. The whole room seemed to slow down and loose gravity.

"...without the cane?" Mr. Watson repeated, shocked.

"Oh my gosh! John, when did you start walking normally?! Does your leg feel better? Or are you being teased at school? If it hurts, you need it!" Mrs. Watson gushed, reaching to get a better look at him. John moved away, clearly upset with his unobservant parents. "M-Mum, I'm fine. It's been getting better. I woke up Tuesday and it just didn't hurt anymore. I haven't needed it since. I tried to tell you, but-" He was interrupted by more gushing.

"This is so amazing!"

"How didn't we notice before?" his dad chipped in.

"I...don't know." John mumbled, suddenly not hungry. Harry got up quietly to leave as their parents began talking amongst themselves.

What hurt the most is that they didn't notice that she had left.

And it hurt John too.

* * *

John was walking Sherlock out to the car that waited for him outside (he must have contacted Mycroft to arrange a ride for him). Dinner was long over, and John was thankful- the incident with his unrecognized limp had really ruined the night.

"I didn't know they weren't aware." Sherlock spoke, a secret apology retrained from escaping. John shook his head, staring at the sidewalk with his hands shoved in his pockets. "No, it's okay. They do that." He added bitterly, "A lot." Sherlock remained silent as they approached the vehicle, and he leaned against it to look back at the house.

"Thanks for making a good impression." John spoke, smiling gratefully at the teenager in front of him.

"Honestly, they probably wouldn't have noticed if I were a serial killer." Sherlock muttered bitterly, eyes locked on the house, with John in his peripheral vision. He noticed him flinch and a slight pained expression cross his face. He tore his gaze from the pale yellow structure to stare at the blonde. "Not good?"

"A bit not good."

Sherlock stayed silent, most likely thinking up everything that could have meant. John didn't question it, though. The less Sherlock knew, the better.

"Do they know that the nightmares have stopped?" Sherlock suddenly inquired, and John silently cursed. Of course he found out about those.

"And how did you know about those, exactly?"

"The bags under your eyes on the first day we met as compared to today. On Monday they were dark and heavy, which shows that you haven't received much sleep in a while. Why would you not get enough sleep? You could be staying up late, busy with something important- but not homework. We haven't had much, and certainly not enough to keep you up. When I observed your room you had nothing of interest. Considering you just moved and only know me, and your recent injury, you don't leave the house. Now, you could just have insomnia- but no. That's not it. You've been tortured for the past year and you've just been exposed to a good time- you're happier, which means something was holding you back from being so. No sleep, unhappiness...nightmares. I'm not sure what about, though- most likely about your past and your leg."

John stood there in silent shock, that familiar gaping present. Slowly, his frown turned into a grin. He didn't like that Sherlock was getting too involved in his past, but the deducing impressed him so immensely that he forgot how irritated he should have been.

"You...are bloody brilliant, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock returned the smile. "Of course I am." He opened the passenger door to climb inside. "I'll see you tomorrow, John." John nodded, waved once, and started back towards his house as the car door closed.

The detective would continue to amaze John as the months progressed- and not _just_ with his deducing.

* * *

**A/N- that was my first real deducing scene I have ever created, so I hope I did a good job!**

**This is the end of part 1. Part 2 will be out soon. Thanks for reading!**


	6. Part 2: Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Part 2**

* * *

**March**

_These city walls ain't got no love for me..._

The naked branches of trees slowly sprouted lime green buds that evolved into white and pink petals that escaped their homes in the blowing wind. This was one of John's favourite times of the year, when he could watch the spirals of colors that swirled though the wind.

Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn't the type for nature. As John was distracted from the outside world _again_, he sighed heavily and tapped his pencil rather harshly on his blonde head. John recoiled in pain. "Ow! Bloody hell, Sherlock!" He glared back at the taller one, rubbing the hurt area. Sherlock gave a taunting smirk while studying the paper in front of him. "Well, John, you should get your mind out of the gutter. Maybe that's why you're failing Algebra and I'm not." John reached over and shoved Sherlock to where he fell back onto his bed. "Oh, shut up! You're not doing so well in English!" Sherlock raised back up to protest. "Sod, English!" he declared, "I hardly understand how poetry can say one thing and mean entirety something else. You want to say how blue the sky is? Just say, 'the sky is blue.' No one has to talk about the little unimportant things that distract minds from the real message." Sherlock finished his little rant by taking a long, irritated breath, and John chuckled in amusement. "It's a wonder why you're single." he said sarcastically, referring to the lack in compassion. Sherlock gazed at his friend blankly, before looking the other way.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the loosing side. _

"Not my area." he reminded him, "And you're single too." he added teasingly.

"Oh, shut up!" They chuckled as they got back to their assignments. The two were at John's house, Sherlock working on the poems due next Monday for English and John struggling with his algebra homework.

John sighed at the problem he was on, and then secretly watched Sherlock. He could practically see the gears turning in his brain, pondering over what to write. In his usual thinking position, his palms were pressed together and fingertips rested on his lips. His eyes were closed, but yet...

"John. Please quit staring. It's distracting." He had been staring? _Shit_. For how long?

"Sorry..." he mumbled with embarrassment, cheeks flushed brightly.

"No, it's fine." Sherlock replied. John's eyebrows connected in confusion. But honestly, Sherlock felt the same. He added, "Well..." Thinking of nothing else, he ordered, "Just stop."

John was the only one who could make his mind go blank. At first, the silence was rare. Now, though, it happened more frequently. He hadn't the slightest idea why, but sometimes it was a miracle. Other times, it annoyed the hell out of him- halting his thought process at such an important moment. Like right then. The poetry project would fail him if he didn't complete it. And apparently, grades marked intelligence.

_Wrong!_

"...Sherlock?" John derailed his train of thought. That train that never before stayed still for so long, and drove the track as fast as a bullet. Sherlock searched for a distraction from the blond's concern.

"You missed two and five." John narrowed his eyes- a deep blue today, as bright as the sky- at the paper on the desk. Algebra was his enemy, and possibly would be the death of him. "Damn it. How?"

Sherlock sighed with irritation, practically throwing his English across the room to get up and help him. He did admire John for wanting to know how to do the work on his own, and how he declined when Sherlock offered him his answers to copy. Leaning over him, he pointed at his mistakes and explained to him how to correct them.

"Thanks." John grinned, turning his head to look at Sherlock's, which was right beside him. Sherlock met his gaze, and they stared into each others eyes, each mesmerized by the closeness and the colour. Those rare days when the sun was out, and Sherlock was caught in the rays, his eyes became prisms. As always, they were beautiful, just like the rest of him. That was one thing John had always been rather jealous about- his beauty. Girls fell head-over-heels for his remarkable features, and then were scared away once they learned of his personality.

John hadn't had much luck with girls either, recently. Sarah seemed to take a liking to him, and even Sherlock had flat out informed him of her interest.

And it's not that he didn't like her. She and him were a lot alike. She wanted to be a doctor as well, which he really enjoyed about her. It's the fact that he was busy with Sherlock every weekend when she wasn't busy with something else.

And other than Molly, Sarah was the only one who dared to breathe around him.

Sherlock hummed in reply and had practically teleported to the other side of the room. He couldn't focus on English. Not now.

Not ever, really.

Eventually, John finished his math, while Sherlock had absolutely nothing finished. He had taken a sudden interest to his book collection, which was lacking anything interesting. _Mostly science fiction. How unrealistic. _

"Okay, Sher. Let me see your English." Sherlock practically dropped the book he was skimming the back of. "Did you just call me 'Sher?'" John wasn't even aware of the fact that he had done so until Sherlock had pointed it out. "Oh. I guess I did."

"Don't." Sherlock snapped, shoving the book back into its place. He raised from his position on the floor to cross the room where his English remained unfinished. "Don't apologize." He didn't even look up.

John closed his opened and prepared mouth.

"I have one started." Sherlock informed, handing a piece of notebook paper to John. He took it and began to read.

Poetry is idiotic.

I'd rather be an alcoholic.

Than stoop so low

As to write this for show.

John's making me write this.

Otherwise I wouldn't care.

I'm not rhyming any longer.

It's a waste of my time.

I'm bored.

John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, although chuckling. "And I thought it was bloody awful at first." Sherlock snatched the paper from his hand, angry at John's laughing. "You told me to write about what I know!"

"And enjoy, Sherlock." John reminded him, forcing himself to stop laughing.

Sherlock's frustration was interrupted by his phone that buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out to view the text.

Come home. Now. -MH

Sherlock groaned loudly and childishly. "I have to go." John looked between his finished homework and Sherlock's unfinished. "Come over tomorrow?" he suggested.

Sherlock shook his head in protest. "Violin." He began packing up his things, throwing them haphazardly into his bag. John grabbed his wrist before he could toss the English in it.

"Sherlock. You're going to fail English." Sherlock didn't want that. He didn't care about what passing grades he made, although they were relatively high, but he certainly didn't want to fail. If only he could work with John longer- he actually forced him to work, though not for long. It was still something.

"Then come over Friday. We'll work on it then and you can spend the night." He pulled his arm out of John's slackened grip and finished packing.

John knew how Sherlock felt about his house. They had been there multiple times, but he'd much rather be at John's...although probably not for more than a day. His parents have been fighting more, and Sherlock had attempted to storm out there and deduce them to their cores several times. Thankfully, John stopped him before he accomplished.

"Are you sure?" he asked him cautiously.

Sherlock turned to look at him. "If you are." As long as his parents were, he guessed he was too.

"Then it's a date." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John's _oh-so-straight_ comment, and John felt a rush of panic course through his system. "Wait. Not a date. A-" _Breathe_. He followed his rational thought's advice, and just stopped. "-you know what I mean." Sherlock almost laughed at his squirming, quite amused at his stupidity. Anyone else's would annoy him, but John's was...different. It was a smart kind of stupidity. Maybe and understanding stupidity. Did that even make sense?

"I do."

John needed a subject change. "Do you want a ride home? I'll see if my dad will drive you." He would drive him himself, but his leg prevented him from ever completing Driver's Ed.

As if on cue, shouting begin filling the house. John sighed sadly. "Never mind." Sherlock wanted to comfort John, or at least show him that he felt sorry about his ignorant parents, but he couldn't bring himself to do so.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the loosing side. _

He'd have to remind himself of that more frequently, lately.

"I'll get a cab. Bye." With that, he shoved the sticking window open and climbed out, not wanting to walk through the middle of their argument- and John surely didn't want him to, either. He closed the window, waved back to John, and then walked away without a glance behind him.

* * *

John trudged into school a little late Friday morning, expecting the halls to be nearly empty as the second bell had just shrilled throughout the front yard. But when he stepped in, exhausted from the long journey to school on foot, everyone was going insane as they bustled around the halls, chatting away to each other, seeming confused. Confused himself, John's pale eyebrows furrowed together, and he searched for a familiar face so he could figure out what was going on.

"John!" John scanned the area for the owner of the voice, hoping the call was for him and not another John, which was a popular name.

Eventually he caught sight of Molly, who he rushed over to with a relieved grin. "Molly! What's going on?"

Molly looked almost as tired as he felt, with flushed cheeks caused possibly from running around. "There's a surprise assembly. No one knows why." _Hm. Strange. _"But Sherlock is looking for you. Something about not answering your texts...?" John breathed out a curse, fingering the phone in his pocket. It was off to ignore any of his parents calls or texts, who were fighting this morning and caused him to have to basically run to school. "Do you know where he is now?"

Molly nodded. "Yeah, I'll lead you to him." Together they pushed through the mass of students, excusing theirselves yet still earning dirty looks for trying to get by.

* * *

The entire high school was migrating into the gym, and Sherlock waited rather impatiently outside the doors, making rude remarks when someone ran into him.

It was when Anderson purposely bumped into him with Sally hanging off his arm that he actually felt infuriated and annoyed.

"Oh, hello, _Freak_." Anderson spat out freak like a cuss word, as if Sherlock were Satan. Sherlock crossed his arms. "Anderson. Sally." He looked between them, visibly disgusted. "How was last night?"

Sally seemed to get all flustered, cheeks flushed as she looked away. Anderson was caught off guard, but only faltered for a moment. "Uh, what are you talking about?"

"Oh, the fact that your other girlfriend that you still have yet to end it with is on holiday and that...well, I figured it out from your deodorant." Anderson was beyond confused. But thankfully, Sherlock was way off as to what actually happened last night...

"My deodorant." he remarked bluntly. Sherlock nodded. "It's for men."

"Well of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"So is Sally." _Never mind. _

Sherlock sniffed the air, smelling the same strong Axe from both of them. "Ooh...I think it just vaporized." Sally gripped onto Anderson's forearm tightly, sending him a look to get Sherlock to shut up.

Anderson held up both of his hands in defense. "Now look, whatever you're implying-" Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if the entire situation should've been obvious to even an idiot. Sarcasm took over his voice. "I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floor, going by the state of her knees."

The couple's cheeks could've outshone the sun. "Look, Freak-" Sally started, rage-filled and ready to throw a punch.

Anderson seemed to beat her to it, and pulled his arm back to do so. Thankfully, John chose that exact moment to approach and nearly tackled Anderson, restraining him from attacking Sherlock. "I really wouldn't do that if I were you." he growled in Anderson's ear, who groaned in reply to John's painful hold.

"Sherlock, get your damn boyfriend off of mine!" Sally shouted, and John let go out of shock and to deny their relationship. "We are not-!"

"C'mon, Sally." Anderson let his girlfriend into the gym, Sherlock and John glaring at them as they did so. Then, Sherlock broke his glare and straightened up. "Thank you. To both of you." He nodded towards John and the Molly, and stepped into the gym without another word. The remaining two exchanged glances and followed the strange male.

John and Sherlock took a seat by each other, waiting to see what the fuss was about.

"This is probably another anti-bullying campaign." John guessed, but Sherlock shook his head, examining everyone and thing. "No...something tragic has happened." Fear settled into John's stomach. "What, Sherlock? What?" Sherlock shook his head slightly, still deducing. "I can't think straight. There's too much noise." He raised his fingers to his temples, massaging them gently. John stopped talking, although knowing that he wasn't helping nor harming.

It didn't take much longer for the principle to begin the assembly, shutting everyone up, much to Sherlock's delight. He could finally figure out-...

"...John." he whispered urgently, eyes huge. John turned to him. "What? Sherlock, what happened?"

The principal, though, was the one who answered the question.

"I am sorry to inform you...but, a student here has been...murdered."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**A/N- This is the time when you guys scream "finally!" at your screen...oh. You don't do that? ...I do. **

******Sorry for the delay. But if you guys want updates on the story, follow my Tumblr- 4geekgirl2. All Johnlock, all the time. C:**

* * *

_All I need is you..._

"That student was our very own Katherine Riley, although you all knew her as Kitty. She was found late last night in The London Museum." Sherlock's face went blank, slipping into silence as he shifted into his thinking pose.

John felt sick- he had just spoken to Kitty yesterday, as she was Sarah's partner in History and they both required assistance for their project. She lived a pretty happy life. She had a wonderful family, good friends, and even a boyfriend John had heard her gushing about one time- Ricky or something along the lines of that. Also, she was head of the school newspaper. She didn't deserve to be so brutally killed.

Hearing sniffs and sobs all around, he searched quickly for Sarah, knowing she would be mortified, but she was no where to be seen.

"The police are doing everything they can to find out who has done such a horrible thing. There is no need to worry, this doesn't mean any of you are at risk of suffering the same fate. Just don't be associated with the wrong people. Don't be out so late at night. This is most likely a random act. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She will be dearly missed, and will forever be in our hearts. A ceremony and funeral will be announced later on this month. You are dismissed." John turned to Sherlock, holding his churning stomach. "Well, detective? Any ideas?"

"She was doing a project for History, no?" Sherlock questioned. John nodded. "Yeah, she and Sarah came to me for help yesterday."

"Sarah seems to be our only lead. We need to talk to her." He stood up, head twisting around quickly to find the girl. John stared at him with saucers for eyes. "You seriously don't think Sarah did it, do you?"

"I'm not assuming anything just yet. But if she did, talking to her is the only way to find out. And I need to before Lestrade does."

"Greg?!"

"No, his father, John! God, think! Why can't people just think?" John's face held a look of offense, but it didn't seem like Sherlock had noticed. He was too busy attempting to find the only suspect that he had in mind. His eyes raced along all the faces, automatically making irrelevant deductions about each one until he found her heading towards the exit. "There she is! Come on!" He gripped the sleeve of John's jumper- a royal blue that brought out his eyes (_Why the bloody hell did I notice that?_)- with his thumb and the side of his pointer finger and pulled him along.

"What are you going to say? You can't just ask if she killed her!" John exclaimed, yanking his arm free. Noticing how close she was to leaving, Sherlock quickened his pace, and John had to jog to keep up with his strides.

"_I'm _not going to say anything unless necessary. _You're_ going to speak."

"M-me?!" John exclaimed. He didn't know what to say to her, nevertheless investigate for a potential crime.

"Yes. Talk to her, question her, and I will deduce." John was about to protest, but Sherlock shoved him nearly right into Sarah's back, who was right in the doorway.

"Uh, Sarah!" Sarah jumped, snapping out of her pity, and turned. She recognized John through the blur of colors her unshed tears produced, and she smiled weakly. "Oh. Hi, John." He felt his heart clench at her face. He was guilty for questioning her at her time of vulnerability, especially when he knew their friendship and how she didn't do it.

"I'm sorry...about..." he trailed off, not wanting her to start crying harder at the actual words of the incident.

Sarah wiped her eyes with the end of her sleeve. "Oh, it's not your fault...but...why would someone do such a thing?" John wasn't sure. Someone he really didn't want to deal with, but was obviously going to have to. He wouldn't let Sherlock run into danger head-on alone. What kind of friend would he be if he did?

He was about to reply when he suddenly realized that Sherlock's eyes were boring into him, burning holes into his very skin, urging him to ask questions. He turned to look at him momentarily, expecting Sherlock to let up his deep green gaze. Which he didn't. His stomach twisted slightly, as if...no. His emotions were all jumbled up because of the shock of the murder.

"Y-yes. It's quite horrible." he managed, ripping his eyes from their lost state within Sherlock's.

"Is it?" Sherlock suddenly pitched in, tired of the sympathy that was getting them no where, staring directly into Sarah's moist eyes.

"Sherlock!" John scolded, narrowing his eyes at him. He was so insensitive sometimes, he swore...

John wasn't the only one who got angry. "Of course it is! Are you just some heartless bastard or something?" Sarah shouted, balling her fists at her sides as she glared up at Sherlock. Sherlock didn't even blink, or care that they were drawing attention. "Close. Did Kitty have any enemies? Jealous girls or something idiotic as that?" John elbowed Sherlock hard enough in his bony side to where he actually flinched, but held most of his composure to investigate. Sarah rolled her glassy eyes, but answered, voice choked. "Her and Sally couldn't stand each other. But I don't think she did it, if that's what you're implying." Her voice raised again.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not at all. Why did they hate each other?" He spoke so fast, Sarah could barely keep up- she looked towards John to see if he felt the same, but he understood perfectly. Two months of getting used to the detective helped develop his comprehension.

"I'm not really sure..." Sarah answered tentatively, going into thought.

"No other enemies? How was her life at home?" Sherlock rushed.

"Good, I think. Her parents are lovely and they cared a lot about her...why are you asking me all this?"

Sherlock dodged the questions. "Do you know why she was at the museum?"

"She was doing research for our project." Sarah answered, bowing her head as if defeated.

"Why weren't you with her?" John intervened, asking softly rather than going about it as harsh as Sherlock was. He glanced at him and saw his shamal but satisfied and proud grin.

"Because she declined my offer to join her. Now I wish I was more stubborn about it...maybe I could've saved her..." Sarah, much to John's dismay and Sherlock's annoyance, began to cry. John placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she looked up in response.

"No. Don't blame yourself. You probably would've been killed too. There's nothing else you could've done." John comforted. Sarah flashed a weak grin. John had made her feel better, different than his usual neglecting. "You're right." Sherlock absolutely had to speak to Sally, no matter how much he hated the girl. He tugged on John's jumper again, as harsh as ever about it. "Come along, John. We should return to class." John met Sherlock's urging gaze, and then turned back to Sarah. "In a second, Sherlock." He groaned loudly. "John."

"Go on without me. I'll catch up."

Sherlock scowled. "At least turn your phone on. Your parents should be leaving you alone by now." He stormed off quickly, off on his own to find Sally and her damn boyfriend that was most likely with her. Stupid John. He didn't need him. He didn't need anyone. Alone protected him. Not John.

"Your parents?" Sarah wondered cautiously, and John waved it off. He didn't need anyone else to know about his family issues. "It's...nothing." He tried to change the subject. "Look, I'm sorry about him...he doesn't understand how to empathize with others..." Or really at all. There were those occasions where he showed emotion to John, but otherwise his feelings were turned off.

"But you do." Sarah chimed, suddenly happier. "That's why I like you." John felt a rush of happiness and his chest heated up around his quickly-beating heart.

"Uh, thanks...I like you too." he stammered out, a blush staining his cheeks.

Sarah twisted a strand of hair around her finger nervously, bright eyes looking towards the polished gym flooring. "Um, I've been meaning to ask you...do you want to do something this weekend?" For the second time in the course of five minutes, John felt sick. He wanted to say yes, but once again, he had made plans with Sherlock before her. He couldn't blow him off- this time it was for homework purposes. And possibly case purposes.

No. Most likely case purposes.

"Sorry...I'm busy all weekend." John declined, defeated as he rubbed his forearm.

Sarah's broken heart was visible right on her face. John cringed as she spoke with venom in her voice. "Let me guess- Sherlock?"

"Uh..." John considered lying, but he knew it was wrong and also knew he was a crap liar and he would just get in more trouble with Sarah. "Yes..."

"You know, John, if you and Sherlock are dating, you could just tell me so I can get over you."

John's cheeks ignited at the thought of dating his male best friend. He definitely wasn't gay. Or bi. He didn't think guys were attractive. He didn't think Sherlock was. In the romantic way, at least. "What?! No! Sherlock and I are just friends!" he panicked. Sarah was still upset and angry, though, and he gently placed his hands on both her shoulders. "Sarah. You don't have to get over me. I really do like you. What are you doing after school Monday?" Usually he was opposed to going out after school, but he was desperate.

Sarah's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Smiling brightly, she answered. "Going on a date with you, I assume." John returned his own smile.

"Indeed you are. Here..." He pulled out a pen and ripped the corner of some (hopefully) unimportant paper to write his number on. Handing it to her, he spoke. "Here's my number. We'll talk more sometime this weekend." She took it with a blush and a grin. "Great. Um..." She hesitated, "thanks for checking up on me, John...you're really sweet."

"Oh, no problem. Just call or text me if you ever need anything."

"I will." Sarah accepted, and then threw her arms around him in a tight embrace. After overcoming his shock, John returned it warmly, unable to decide if today was a good day or a bad day.

* * *

It was well past 3rd period, and Sherlock was no where to be found. John assumed he'd be in class, but when he passed by the room, he wasn't in his seat. So therefore he was most likely in trouble. As usual. John texted him, ignoring the messages from his parents, mostly his mom, but got no reply as he spent five minutes roaming he campus. He finally called him, but after a ring and a half, the call was sent to voicemail. Irritated and tired, he began a course back to Chemistry.

"I didn't do anything! Get away!" John jumped at the yell, although faint. It was from a female, and it sounded like Sally. Quickly, he bounded to the source of the shout- he figured it was Sherlock's doing.

Once he reached not only Sally but Anderson and Sherlock- he figured right- Anderson was attempting to get into Sherlock's face.

"Look, Freak, Sally wouldn't stoop so low as to kill anyone. Well. Maybe kill you, but you deserve it anyway!"

Sherlock's blank face faltered, but for only a split, nearly unrecognizable second. It took a moment for John to understand that he was actually somewhat hurt that everyone hated him and thought he were better off dead.

And it sure as hell pissed John off.

"Oh, piss off, Anderson!" All three of them whipped their heads to the blonde. "John..." Sherlock whispered, seeming...he wasn't relieved, was he?

"Oh look, the boyfriend has stepped in." Anderson sneered, and John clinched both his jaw and fists. "I'm not his boyfriend!" he declared with a shout, and Sherlock also felt his own anger boil inside him.

Although, he expressed his a little differently.

"Oh, please, you at your own time had your own boyfriend, _Nicky_." He used the nickname- short for Nicholas- that his ex had used, which struck quite a violent nerve.

"Boyfriend?!" Sally screeched, flabbergasted and upset. Anderson stammered out incoherent protests, but Sally was fed up with her shitty day- she stormed away, planning to get the hell out of the damn school.

As Sally disappeared behind the corner, Anderson turned sharply on his heel and threw a fist into Sherlock's face, sending the unsuspecting teen to the ground. John felt his rage and adrenaline take over his actions and he slammed his own fist into Anderson's face just as he was turning, wiping the smug, accomplished look off his face. Anderson jumped back up to fight John, but he had vanished from sight. He glowered at Sherlock, eyes dark with rage and hatred, who was still on the ground but propped against the lockers now. He was going to attack him again until someone rather heavy jumped onto his back and pulled him back into a headlock, choking him. John, again.

"You leave Sherlock the _fuck_ alone or so help me I will beat the _everliving shit _out of you. My dad was in the army and he trained me. I will _not_ hold back."

That was the moment Sherlock realized that he truly _did_ need John.

"Let go of me, queer..." Anderson rasped, and John did so...only to tackle him with a raged yell.

Sherlock watched with his wide, shocked emerald eyes. John was once again defending him, and it was...nice. He felt important, for once. It was a nice feeling considering everyone else hated him or just didn't care much. John always gave him this feeling, and though he hated his emotions, there were some rather nice ones that came along with John's friendship.

There was a new one, though, that he felt when John ordered Anderson around, acting much like a general- he was army strong already, and as much as Sherlock didn't want to see him go into war, he felt that he was appropriate for the job.

So what was that emotion?

He didn't get to finish analyzing when two teachers rushed over and split Anderson and John up. The principal then interfered and sent all three of them to the office. Breathing heavily, John glanced at Sherlock, who grinned back at him before hurrying to the front. He would get a hold of Mycroft and he would get them out of trouble without a hassle.

John waited outside the office in silence, Anderson on the other side of the bench with an ice pack pressed against his bloodied and bruised up face. John didn't feel sorry for him in the slightest. He shouldn't have insulted Sherlock for as long and as much as he did.

He glanced at his own bruised fist, covered with a bag of ice. He would ditch it eventually- he had a pretty high pain tolerance.

Jiggling his knee impatiently, he dreaded the phone call to home and the scolding he would receive. He wondered how things were going with Sherlock, as he had been in there for about seven minutes now.

As if on cue, the teen stepped out of the room, sending John a smile before clearing his face of any emotion. John winced himself at Sherlock's bruised jaw, but hopefully, it wasn't broken. The secretary, and older woman with fading ginger hair, looked between the two boys as Anderson was called in by the principal. "You two are free to go. Just don't let it happen again." With an annoyed look on her wrinkled face, she turned and followed Anderson into the office. John turned to Sherlock. "We're not in trouble?" Sherlock shrugged. "Mycroft owed me a favor." He then smirked at John. "Actually, he owed me several. We're not in trouble, and instead of resuming school, we're going to investigate a crime scene. Come along." He hurried down the hall, and John jogged up to him. "What? Sherlock, you have to be kidding me." Sherlock suddenly halted and grasped John's shoulders. His smile was huge and almost maniacal. "I'm not. Sally's innocent, which gives us no leads. John, this is a huge murder. No one knows who killed young Katherine- not even the police. They're stumped. Not much evidence at all- but they're all idiots. They always overlook the most important details. That's why we're going in- we're going to speak with Lestrade- senior, of course- and we're going to get about five minutes to investigate. Luckily, that's all we'll need." As he spoke, he got more and more excited, and leaned closer to John. He leaned back, blood rushing to his cheeks, and his stomach protested against Sherlock coming even closer...but for some reason his mind didn't. He felt the urge to close that gap between them and kiss those Cupid's bow lips. He wondered what they felt like, what they tasted l-

John all but threw Sherlock off of him, heart racing and face on fire. What the fucking _hell_ was wrong with him?! Sherlock was his best friend. Not his bloody lover!

He needed that date with Sarah more than he thought.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice John's distress. "Oh, John! It's like Christmas!" He then winced, rubbing his jaw gingerly. John came closer and moved his hand from his face, bringing his own to the opposite side to keep him from moving, and Sherlock rolled his eyes in protest. "John, please. We don't have time for you to doctor me. I'm fine." John pulled away. "It's not broken. But you need some ice from the nurse's office. Then we can leave.

"But John-!" Sherlock began to protest stubbornly.

"No 'but's! Come on!" John interrupted, grabbing his wrist and tugging it to pull him along. Luckily, Sherlock gave up on protesting with a heavy sigh, and complied. "Why do you insist on caring about my well-being?"

"Someone bloody has to." John smirked, and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk also.

* * *

They received a ride from one of Mycroft and Sherlock's personal chauffeurs- Sherlock had thrown their things in the back and ordered him to take them to the Museum of London. John added a "please" and Sherlock rolled his eyes in an irritated manner. John glared at him. "There's something called 'being nice.' You should try it sometime."

"Ha. Most people are too stupid to even attempt being nice to." Sherlock scoffed with his typical eye roll.

"What about me? We're best friends, Sherlock. And I'm stupid." John questioned, using air quotes at "stupid."

"But you're an interesting stupid. Amusing. You don't bother me." Noticing John felt honored and was a out to speak, Sherlock changed the subject quickly. "Now fix my damn jaw before it falls off." John sighed irritably, recalling to how Sherlock wouldn't let the nurse touch him. They compromised to let John take some minor supplies to help, including some pain medication. Gently cleaning some blood off, he replied, "It's not going to fall off, Sherlock. You're not twelve- don't act like it." Sherlock winced at the burn that the cleaning was causing, and John chuckled lightly. "Maybe you're just stuck in a twelve-year old's body."

"Oh yes, John, that's exactly how I'm so much taller than your mere height of- what? 5'3?" Sherlock insulted with a smug grin. John glared at him, pulling away to allow him to see. "5'6, you arse."

"I'm not an arse. That's physically impossible."

John snorted. "Okay, well now you're a smartarse. Congratulations, you've evolved."

Sherlock looked bewildered. "Was that a hideous reference to Pokemon?"

"Maybe." John muttered with a grin, continuing his aid to Sherlock's bruise.

They sat in silence for what felt like hours, John having cleaned up his injury easily. Sherlock felt like he should say thank you, but the words wouldn't form. He sat there, lips moving much like a fish's.

John chuckled in amusement. "You're welcome, Sherlock." He smiled faintly in reply, glad John understood him, even in the silence.

* * *

After a short ride, they entered The London Museum, ducking under yellow police tape and walking straight passed the angry staring from the Scotland Yard. John ducked down a little, hiding behind Sherlock's height, now a little thankful he was short.

They approached a man that looked to be in his fifties, with greying hair and wrinkles. It was like an older version of Greg, with a slightly different facial structure.

"Lestrade." Sherlock acknowledged vaguely, striding right up to the blocked off crime scene- John's blood ran cold as he stared at Kitty's dead body. Dead people didn't really bother him and neither did blood, but when it was someone he knew...

"Sherlock Holmes. Brother of Mycroft. He's the one who ordered us to keep the body here so you could investigate. Again."

"If your team won't do anything right, someone should." Sherlock remarked with an eye roll, ignoring John's wide-eyed stare. "Now, if you're done wasting my time..." He strode directly into the crime scene, examining every aspect of her.

"She wasn't killed here, as told by the smears of blood, some in the shape of fingers, and the blood amount- killed here, she would've been swimming in it. She was placed in here after closing time, without setting off the alarms- you had already found that technology to disable them. If you could let me see those soon...There are no fingerprints- they were wearing special gloves. She smells faintly of smoke- but not cigarette smoke. Last night, an abandoned building on the outskirts of London _miraculously_ caught fire. That's where she was killed, so they set fire to it to get rid of most of the evidence. We'll have to visit that building later."

Lestrade attempted to intervene. "Sherlock, what's the-"

Sherlock interrupted him with an annoyed tone. "Google the address, I have no time to answer your questions. Now, the bullet through her skull- it was direct, almost exactly in the center. Sniper. Someone was excellent with their shot, so they're obviously experienced- war training. So someone with military experience is who we're looking for.

There's bruising along her right knuckles. She tried to fight back against her restrainer, which is actually the person who knew her. It's a two, possibly more, person job. The restrainer is not the one who killed her, though. Most likely a relationship of some sort- lovers, siblings, or some other relation.

She was supposed to come here to research artifacts from the Mayans. She never made it that far- but whoever killed her knew her well enough and was aware that she would be here. And by well enough I mean very well- relatives. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, first and second. Friends. Regular, best friends, boyfriends, previous or current. They'll need to be questioned."

John knew Sherlock was already frustrated, but he was impressed with his genius as usual. "Amazing..." Sherlock acknowledged him with a flicker of his pale eyes, but nothing else. He was in deep thought.

"Wait, who are you?" Lestrade wondered with a point of his finger. John jumped. "Um...John Watson, sir." Lestrade held his hand out for a shake, and John accepted.

"Michael Lestrade. Are you one of Greg's friends? He talks about you from time-to-time." John and Greg weren't exactly close, but they did talk more often now and he gave him advice on how to talk with Molly- who he had a crush on.

"We're acquaintances. He's trying to get me to join the rugby team next year."

"Oh. Why are you here?"

"He's with me." Sherlock cut in, stepping back from Kitty's lifeless body. "I'm done here, Lestrade. Give me a technology sample and I'll be on my way."

As the two walked away, Sherlock blabbered on about the technology and how expensive and difficult it was to get a hold of, but John wasn't listening. The Scotland Yard was conversing about Sherlock and his new "pet." Boyfriend. Partner. And how much Mycroft was probably paying him.

Sighing heavily, John brushed them off. He was done with defending Sherlock's honor today. He really didn't feel like shouting at anymore people. The two climbed into their ride, expecting to go back to Sherlock's.

But then Sherlock gave the chauffeur the address of the burned building, and his head spun quickly to face him. "We're going _now_?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. We have to get there before the Scotland Yard. They'll annoy me and then we'll get nothing done."

John rested his elbow on the window seal and then his head on the palm of his hand. Even the fact that he and Sarah were somewhat of a thing now didn't make his decision any different- today was not a very good day.

* * *

**A/N- I really hope his deduction scene was good. That was probably the hardest part to write!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**A/N- I'm saying this in advance- I'm sorry. **

* * *

_And teach me wrong from right/And I'll show you what I can be_

They arrived to debris and ashes, the aroma of smoke carrying through the soft wind. There wasn't much to find within the massive range of destruction, just moist, scorched wood trapped under other burned, less wet pieces. With a sigh, John raked his fingers through his blond, already sweaty strands of hair. "Sherlock, any evidence is destroyed." The detective refused to believe that, though, admiring the placement wood planks. It was too organized. Something was very odd.

"John, please. Have you seen some of this wood?" John snorted in disagreement, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, it practically spells out the evidence right to us." he bit back sarcastically, motioning wildly to the mess. Back turned to Sherlock, he didn't notice him freeze in mid-step, snapping his head up in John's direction. "John. Say that again." John turned toward him and cocked his head to the side in confusion and wonder. "Um...I said that the wood almost spells the evidence out?" Sherlock didn't even wait for him to finish his sentence as his head flew in different directions, facing towards the sky as if he were frantically looking for something. Grey eyes locking on what seemed to be a roof, Sherlock hurried towards another building. "John, get off the debris!" he called back, and the blond complied only to go after him curiously and also to make sure he didn't accidentally get himself killed...

Sherlock reached the fire escape and jumped up to pull the iron ladder down.

"Sherlock, what are you-" John was cut off by the high-pitched squeal of the iron, and he cringed slightly whereas Sherlock failed to even falter. He climbed swiftly up, John following with a couple murmurs of curses.

"Really, John, your English is sensational." Sherlock remarked, tone drenched in sarcasm as he reached the first platform. John scrambled after him and got to his feet without a hint of grace and smacked his shoulder. "Shut up, git." Sherlock smirked in success, and then hurried up to the rooftop. He nearly ran off the edge, beating John there, who was still clambering over the other end. "God, Sherlock, someone outta put a leash on you." he gasped, pulling himself up only to rest. Sherlock didn't reply, and John had to look up to make sure he hadn't fallen.

"John." His voice was alarmed, for Sherlock at least. It made John's blood run cool, not exactly cold but definitely not as warm as it was. He stood and carefully made his way over to him, as if not to startle him over the ledge he was standing directly on. John grasped the back of his jacket and pulled him back as he approached, and Sherlock obliged to step back.

And that's when his blood froze and his heart seemed to stop.

Because, standing out like a candle among the darkness, were letters spelled out with unburned wood.

S H E R  
L O C K

Sherlock pulled out his phone and silently snapped some pictures before sending a text along with one picture to Lestrade.

"Sherlock, God, this killer knows who you are." John stated fearfully. Sherlock smirked slightly. "So he does." He looked towards John with a sparkle in his eye. "That must mean that the game is on." John's eye almost twitched, but he maintained his composure. He was used to his insanity by now, and wasn't at all surprised that Sherlock was thrilled that he had such a grand challenge awaiting him.

"Do you have any enemies that would've done this?"

"Sebastian and his group, but they have been dealt with already, as you remember. Anderson wouldn't do something such as this, and Sally couldn't kill someone if she tried. Otherwise, it's someone who knows me, but not vice versa." He grinned widely at John and gripped his shoulders. "Don't you see, John?! This murderer might be just as intelligent as I am. All the more challenge." He ignored the warmth that flooded him when John grasped his hands to pull them off, noticing the lingering touch as he manually placed Sherlock's hands at his side for him- interesting. Fighting off a blush and his own warmth, especially where his hands had been, John spoke. "Just...be careful, alright? I don't..." He paused, staring at the roof beneath their feet to consider his words. "I don't want to see you hurt. Or worse." He looked back into those grey irises that seemed to change to their normal pale green that John suddenly realized was his new favorite color...

Sherlock nodded once, ignoring all the signs of sentiment he was feeling, especially when John said that last part-_ "I don't want to see you hurt. Or worse." _It made him happy, but he couldn't let John see that- at least not right now. "Of course." His voice was soft- too soft, and left John, unknowing to Sherlock as he turned and walked away, flustered and red in the face.

* * *

When Lestrade arrived, he stepped towards Sherlock with wide, angry strides. "You weren't permitted access to here."

"Didn't need permission. You didn't protest when I mentioned visiting it, and even if you did, we'd be in the same situation we are in right now. So no point in wasting your oxygen with pointless statements."

"Of course." Lestrade noticed the dark bruise along Sherlock's jaw and then motioned to it. "What happened to you? Did John here finally get sick of your mouth?"

Ignoring John's protests of "Why would I do that?" he replied in his usual smartarse manner. "Oh, Lestrade, I see where Greg gets his tremendous sense of humor from." He waved off both his and John's glares, John's one of disapproval and Lestrade's of anger. "He's an idiot for not noticing it earlier." he claimed to John.

"No, Sherlock," John started in, voice firm and controlled, "You can't just insult people like that, especially if they don't deserve it. What has Lestrade ever done to you?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Told my brother about my smoking habit. Now I'm on Nicotine patches." His long and pale fingers swiftly unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve and rolled it up to show one Nicotine patch- Sherlock knew he should've brought extra, because this case was a three patch problem. John stared at him incredulously. "You smoke?"

"He used to." Lestrade cut in.

Sherlock looked somewhat satisfied at Lestrade's reply. "Yes, John, please try to keep up." He turned and rolled his sleeve down, buttoning the cuff back again.

John felt a little hurt that he hadn't known. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock turned to face him again, eyes practically boring into his in an intense stare. John felt his cheeks flush slightly. "Because I knew you'd react like this, considering your father's an avid smoker and he wakes you up in the mornings with his boisterous coughing, choking, and spitting." John flushed darker with embarrassment, scratching the side of his head as he averted away from his and Lestrade's gaze. "Okay, so I disagree with smoking. Still. Just because he 'told on you' doesn't mean you should hate him for it. You're not five, no matter how much you act like you are sometimes." He smirked now, seeing Sherlock's semi-horrified expression. "I do not!" He folded his arms and turned his head away from John, who groaned exasperatedly at the glimpse of Sherlock's lower lip sticking out ever so slightly before he moved away. "You're pouting!"

Lestrade couldn't handle much more of this. "Alright, boys!" he interrupted assertively, "That's enough. I don't want to listen to this. You fight like an old married couple, for God's sake." John held his tongue and hid his blush, hoping Sherlock wouldn't make the situation worse. But he probably would.

"Right. Well. I'm going to go speak to the parents." Or not.

"Sherlock, we've already done that today." Lestrade claimed.

"I'm aware. Now I'm going to." Sherlock replied, turning to head to the car. He was stopped when John's hand clamped down on his shoulder, and he turned back to him with a raised eyebrow, seeing his disapproval. "Problem?"

"Sherlock, please. Let's wait until tomorrow." John requested. Sherlock look so against the idea, you might as well just asked him to jump off a tall building. "Why?!"

"They just lost their daughter, Sherlock! We don't need to interrogate the poor couple!" John exclaimed, and then added, "Plus, you need to do your homework."

"But- John..." Sherlock begged, pale face holding a look of misery.

But John knew better than to succumb to Sherlock's behavior. "No 'but's. This poetry project is a major part of your grade so let's go." Sherlock sighed heavily and made sure John saw his overdramatic eye roll before he marched to the car.

Lestrade could barely believe what he was seeing. He turned to the blonde. "John..." John met his dark eyes.

"You keep that boy in line. You have a good effect on him. I can see how much he cares about you...and so can Greg. We talk about you guys a lot." Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly, realizing that his statement sounded a bit creepy. John didn't think so, he was just...surprised, he guessed. "Oh. Well. Um." He regained his composure before continuing. "I will, sir. Tell Greg I said 'hello'."

"I will. Good bye."

"Bye."

* * *

John climbed into the back and slid in next to Sherlock, who was texting rapidly and angrily as he scowled at the screen. He sighed, running his fingers through his sandy hair.

"Sherlock...I'm sorry. But we really need to give them a break..."

"Doesn't matter anymore. Mycroft demands I be home early." Sherlock allowed his phone to slide from his fingertips and onto the floorboards and then proceeded to fluff his hair vigorously. John frowned at his best friend's distress. "Why? Usually you just ignore him and do your own thing..." Sherlock sighed with frustration and snapped his head up to look at John. "Mummy and Father are coming for a visit. And they are just dying to meet you."

If John thought he was nervous when Sherlock was meeting his parents, that was nothing compared to how he felt now. He was told how proper and elegant Sherlock's parents were- and he was just some damaged, somewhat poor 17-year old who couldn't even drive yet.

"Sherlock, I don't have anything nice to wear. I don't know how to act. Or what to say. Or which fork to use when."

"Be yourself. I have a lot more to worry about than you." He dropped his head back into his hands as the car lurched forward, and John resisted the urge to reach out and stroke his hair to attempt to calm him. "Why? They're _your_ parents!" Sherlock raised once more, glaring daggers at the boy on the other side of the bench. "All my life, I have been living in Mycroft's shadow. I am supposed to live up to my parent's expectations of doing something 'worth-while' with my intellect and they are disappointed with me for wanting to be nothing more than a consulting detective. They say it's not even a job! Well it is. I made it. And I'm excellent at it. But I'm a disappointment, especially to my father. I'm almost convinced he hates me, and I know for a fact that he doesn't love me. _Love is a chemical defect found in the loosing side._ Mycroft and I grew up on that, John. He can't love and he won't, especially not me."

John couldn't believe that. His family was screwed up to, but of course his father still cared about him. "He's your _father_, Sher-"

"Don't even start, John." Sherlock cut him off, "I know everything about everyone just by looking at them and I know how my family feels about me. Mycroft is the perfect child and I'm the one who needs to be kept on a damn leash because I'm nothing more than a dysfunctional machine who nobody can tolerate!"

"...that's what your father said to you, isn't it?" John remembered back to when he had said that Sherlock should have a leash and how he didn't say a word. Now he felt extremely guilty.

Sherlock had no intention of replying, staring down at the floorboards because that way his emotions were mostly hidden. John reached out to him, debating whether or not to offer some form of comfort. He rested his hand on the detective's back (not his head, that wouldn't be very "just a friend"-like), and when he didn't protest, he began to rub it comfortingly. "I'm sorry-"

"You didn't know." He knew why he was apologizing. Of course he did.

A sigh emitted from John. He needed to cheer him up, make him believe that he was different from his father, family, or the bullies at school. "Sherlock, all those things that your family has thought or said about you is wrong. Everything the kids at school said? Wrong. You're brilliant and amazing and you shouldn't be a disappointment in their eyes. God knows you definitely aren't one in mine. You be whatever the hell you want to be because it's your life and your decision. Sure, you're practically impossible sometimes, but whoever can't handle you is a waste of your time. Dysfunctional machine? Definitely not. Yes, you do hide your emotions somewhere in your brilliant mind, but it's okay to let them show, despite what your father says. You care, Sherlcok. You have a heart. Machines don't have hearts."

Sherlock stared at him with red rimmed, glassy eyes, shocked and completely moved at John's words. No one had ever said anything like that to him before and it felt so...nice. Someone actually liked him. For who he was. John didn't want him to change because he accepted Sherlock for who he was- not for who he wasn't.

He blamed it on the sudden rush of hormones, but he slowly inched closer to John and ducked his face into the crook of his neck, gripping him around the waist for dear life. John gasped quietly at the sudden show of affection, skin tingling at the unexpected contact. With a speeding heart and a hot face, he hugged Sherlock closer, one hand holding him in place while the other traced comforting patterns on his back for seven minutes and thirty-four seconds- Sherlock counted.

Sherlock had no idea what he was doing, letting himself be consumed his best friend's arms. But he didn't want to move. He never wanted John to let him go, to stop touching him. But, sadly, they had about another three minutes until they reached home- Sherlock could feel all the turns and see the roadmap of London in his head.

"John..." he mumbled, and he felt John shudder, most likely at the warmth of his breath released as he spoke.

"Sherlock?" John wondered, voice strained. Why was he reacting as so? He had relaxed soon after they had started the contact and was fine for the seven minutes until Sherlock had said his name. So he wasn't uncomfortable.

Sherlock sat up to examine John, arms still locked in place. His cheeks were flushed and his ocean irises were almost navy now, with dilated pupils in the center. His hands had slid to Sherlock's forearms as he backed away, and his thumbs were stroking the fabric beneath them (unconsciously?).

"Thank you..." Sherlock managed to say, unwilling to move any further. John's eyes seemed to flicker downwards as he gulped. Then he gave a slight shake of his head as if to snap him out of his thoughts, and he smiled gently at him before backing off.

Why had he looked at his lips when he spoke? Why did Sherlock feel good that he did?

That's when he realized and understood everything.

He liked John. A lot.

John liked him. A lot.

But John didn't know he liked Sherlock.

A lot.

Emotions. Love. This wasn't Sherlock's area. He couldn't do anything to take hold of the situation. He didn't know how. John was more experienced, he knew how to be in a relationship.

The problem was, he didn't know when he wanted to be in one, or who he wanted to be in one with. So Sherlock was torn between actually doing something about their newfound feelings, waiting until John did, or getting over him.

Considering the first two would never happen, he chose the third option, ignoring the protesting twinge in his gut.

The chauffeur pulled into the Holmes' driveway and the boys walked into the home, their stuff in tow. John looked around nervously, but Sherlock reassured him. "They won't be here for another hour." John took a deep breath and nodded, following Sherlock up the stairs and to his room. The detective immediately hurried into the adjoined bathroom and prodded the bruise along his jaw gently. John watched for a moment. "You might want to cover that up before your parents see it."

Sherlock shook his head. "They'll notice the make-up and be even more alarmed that I tried to hide it. I'll tell them the truth- some idiot at school punched me and my friend, John Watson, punched him back for me." He grinned at the blond, who grinned back and ignited that heat of his entire body once again. He grasped his churning stomach for a moment, willing it to stop, before heading back into his own room. John had already set up an area on Sherlock's bed to work, so he sat on the floor with his back braced against the side. John raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word about him being closer.

"John, what do I write about?" John sighed, placing his pencil down. "Something you like. What's your favorite thing?"

_You_. "Experimenting." John blinked rapidly before replying with hesitance. "Um...okay. Well, write about the joys you feel when you experiment. Remember, you can free-verse or you can use a different type of poetry." Sherlock nodded once, and silently debated writing over John or experimenting. But if either, what exactly about?

John's eyes. They were a perfect topic. So Sherlock got to work, telling off John if he took the slightest glance in the direction of his poem. John chuckled before continuing his poem about second impressions. He never thought himself poetic in the slightest until he read over what he wrote.

Someone practically pounded at the door, breaking John of his concentration and scaring him. Sherlock's pencil snapped in half, and he practically stomped over to the door to open it. One of the servants stood behind it. John stared at the pencil in horror.

"Mr. Holmes, your parents have arrived." Sherlock nodded once and shut the door before resting his forehead against it, letting his eyes fall closed. John approached him carefully, warm hand on the small of his back. Sherlock had to force himself not to jump nine miles, or really react at all.

"Sherlock, whatever they say...just know that I accept you for who you are and I will stand up for you."

This brought Sherlock from his pity. He stared John down with sea green irises and dilated pupils. "You can't."

"I can and I will." John argued, nodding once authoritatively. He turned on his heel and reached to open the door, but Sherlock snatched his wrist. John stared at him in surprise.

"John, they are people who do not like to be told they are wrong. They will fight with you and kick you out and make sure we will never speak again. Don't do this- for my sake." John scoffed with an eye roll. "Sherlock, please. You're being overdramatic." With his free hand he attempted with the knob again, but Sherlock yanked him free and shoved him against the door, hands pinned above his head. He was in his face, ready to yell, but one look into his cerulean eyes and Sherlock's mind went blank.

It was an amazing feeling, not being able to think about anything but John. It was relieving, reassuring, positively _addicting_. He wanted to shove him even further against that door, eliminate any space between the two, kiss him hard with all he had, bruise and swell those pale pink lips, feel every inch of him under his finger tips. Heat swelled in his abdomen- it had never happened before, but he knew what that meant. He willed it to fade, to send the blood anywhere else, but it was difficult when everything in his mind was just John. His name, flying about. His face, on the first day he got glimpse of it. His face now- frightened to close the distance. Hopeful to close the distance. Confused about his feelings. His eyes flicked back and forth from Sherlock's pale eyes to his Cupid's bow lips. Cheeks were flushed. Adam's apple bobbing as he repeatedly gulped and swallowed.

If Sherlock thought getting over John was an option, he was wrong. It didn't happen often, but his emotions were betraying him. He liked John.

Hell, he _loved_ John.

He leaned just a bit closer to him without realizing, limiting their proximity, when another sharp knock shattered their lusty haze like glass. Their breathes, that they hadn't realized were labored, hitched in their throats, silence enveloping them.

"Sherlock, if you are quite done doing...indescribable things with Mr. Watson...Mummy and Father are restless and are awaiting your presences." The two waited, entire faces tomato red and hearts pounding against their chests rapidly, for the tap of Mycroft's designer shoes to fade before Sherlock pulled completely off of him and ducked his head in embarrassment, pacing about the room. John moved slowly to the couch to sit down. Sherlock then stormed in the direction of the door. John screwed his eyes shut in (sexual) frustration, pressing his fingers to his temple. "Sher-"

The door opened and slammed shut before he could even finish the teen's name.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**A/N- Ha, and you guys thought there was sexual tension in the last chapter...**

* * *

_Hurry, I'm falling/I'm falling/I'm falling_

John slowly descended the stairs, dread coating his entire stomach. He heard laughing from a female, and Sherlock's fake chuckling. It made him cringe.

"So, Dear, where is your friend?" the female voice- probably his mother- inquired.

"In my room. Most likely finishing up the last part of his homework." Sherlock lied easily. John just hoped they'd buy it, because he sure didn't- his voice sounded too strained for his ears.

"What is your assignment?" another voice pitched in, deep, smooth, and emotionless, much like Mycroft's. Their father, then. John gained the courage to enter dining room, and after a deep breath he spoke. "We're writing poetry. Ten pieces each." He almost seemed to startle the family, and he wanted to curl up into a ball and hide as they raked their eyes all over him, already making their first impression.

"You must be John Watson." Mrs. Holmes spoke with a bright smile, and as she stood to shake his hand, he could tell who Sherlock got most of his looks from. She was extremely thin, with creamy white skin, curled, ebony locks pinned to the top of her head elegantly, and most noticeably, pale green eyes that matched her son's perfectly. "I'm Cadence Holmes. It's marvelous to meet you." John grinned nervously. "You too." he nearly stuttered. As Cadence retreated, Mr. Holmes approached. The intimidating man was very tall, going soft around the middle and his light brown hair receding. His eyes were nearly black they were so dark, and they pierced their way into John's soul. He was like an older Mycroft, but with Sherlock's lips. Gulping, he shook the older man's hand. "John Watson. Nice to meet you, sir." Mr. Holmes nodded once, in what seemed to be approval. "Rupert Holmes." They all took a seat, John by Sherlock even though the boy wouldn't so much as look in his direction. Their parents sat at the ends, and Mycroft and the allusive Anthea (_When did she arrive?_) sat across from John and Sherlock. Then there was all the food that hid the enormous table from view. Tea cups were filled to the brim by one servant while another lit candles. John stared with huge eyes at everything, and he finally chanced a look towards Sherlock. He seemed embarrassed, and he flicked his eyes towards John before averting his gaze completely.

After fixing all their plates, John waited for someone else to begin eating before he did, just in case they held some ritual that commenced before they ate. Then he did his best not to stuff his face with all the delicious food. Sherlock picked at his, taking a few bites and ignoring the friendly banter that only he and John weren't a part of. John took this time to think about earlier- as if he could help it.

He hated himself for wanting Sherlock to kiss him. For God's sake, he was straight. Never interested in any guy until bloody Sherlock came along with his beauty. Hell, he was even calling him beautiful. He didn't understand- he didn't like Sherlock like that...did he?

_No. Stop. Every time something emotional happens, your feelings go haywire. It's normal. You like girls. You like Sarah. Sarah is pretty._

But he couldn't even deny the fact that he thought Sherlock was much more attractive. Damn it all.

"Sherlock, I would ask how school was but the bruise on your jaw gives it away." Mr. Holmes suddenly spoke to the teen, and the entire table went utterly silent. John glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

"Rupert..." Mrs. Holmes warned. Sherlock calmly placed his utensils down and wiped his hands and mouth with a black cloth napkin before speaking. "Some idiot punched me because I told him I knew about his experimental boyfriend and his girlfriend became angry." His parents glanced at each other for a moment before looking back at their youngest. "Son, you don't need to do that. We've told you this time and time again that you can't just deduce people willy-nilly! When are you going to learn?" Mr. Holmes scolded, and Sherlock's cheeks began to grow red. John sighed and decided to speak up. "That still didn't give Anderson a justified reason to punch him."

Mr. Holmes- and Sherlock as well- stared him down and John almost sank into his chair, but he stood his ground.

"I suppose not. But Sherlock, do you ever see Mycroft going around and getting hit for deducing? No. You should know how to use your skill properly, Sherlock. You have it for a reason but yet you use it to anger people because they're 'idiots.' Why can't you be more like your brother?" This made John angry. Everything that Sherlock had said about their father was correct, and he was also hurting and embarrassing the hell out of his son.

"Everyone is different, naturally." he spoke, forcing the venom away. Sherlock smacked his leg under the table, but as his hand was retreating, John grabbed it and whipped his head in his direction. He was begging him not to continue with his greying eyes. John gave his hand a gentle squeeze, deciding not to let go for comfort purposes (and definitely not because felt nice or anything), before looking back at his father. "I think that Sherlock is brilliant- he just shows his brilliance differently." Sherlock pried his hand away from John's gently, ducking his head away.

"Yes, John, that is a good way to think about it." Cadence put in, looking towards her son and smiling. John noticed that he gave a small smile back.

"Cadence..." Rupert started, but then Cadence started a conversation with Anthea and Mycroft again, so Rupert sighed in defeat and joined in. Sherlock turned to John and smiled at him. "Thank you, John." John returned the grin and nodded. "I'm not going to let anyone talk unnecessary shit about you." Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Why do you care what people think of me?" John scoffed before chuckling. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed together, and John saw the little (_adorable- wait what?_) scrunch of his nose for the first time. He ignored the impulse to smooth it out. "What?" Sherlock wondered. John just chuckled again. "You're an idiot." Sherlock felt himself grin again, understanding John's insult as playful.

Cadence watched her son and John Watson communicate. She had never seen Sherlock so happy before. Her husband didn't share her feelings, but she would talk with him about his behavior later. She appreciated Sherlock for who he was, obnoxious or not.

She also appreciated John Watson for sharing that feeling.

* * *

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes allowed the boys to continue their homework after dinner while they sat and conversed with their eldest and his girlfriend, curious about the future. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he hurried upstairs, John trailing. They worked silently, Sherlock hoping John didn't say anything about what took place before dinner, and shutting up the part of his mind that was practically begging for it to happen.

John finally shattered the silence. "You weren't kidding about your father, huh?" Sherlock shook his head, not intending to reply verbally. John took in an unsteady breath, prepared to speak, when Sherlock beat him to it. "Please refrain yourself from apologizing any more. It is obviously not your fault and you have done all you can to address the matter and I appreciate it immensely." John stared at him in disbelief before breaking into a grin. He chuckled, momentarily raising his eyebrows before turning back to his poem. "Whatever you say, Spock." Sherlock was confused into silence, eyebrows furrowing together. He eyed John. "Who is Spock?" John's grip on his pencil loosened so much from shock that he dropped it before staring at Sherlock as if he had grown a second head. "You've never seen _Star Trek_?" Sherlock's expression remained the same. "What the bloody hell is _Star Trek_?" John chuckled softly, unbelieving. "Wow. It's a sci-fi movie, but also an old telly series. Next time you or I come over, we're watching the movie." Sherlock groaned, falling back on his bed dramatically. "Sci-fi's are so unrealistic and idiotic, John." he whined. John threw his pencil at him playfully. "Oh, shut up. _Star Trek_'s a good movie. Just give it a try."

"Hello, Mummy." Sherlock said suddenly, and John turned to look at the doorway. He jumped to see Cadence Holmes, watching them with a smug grin. John flushed slightly. "Mrs. Holmes. Hello." She even crept up on people as silently as her son. Strange.

"Hello, Dears. We're about to leave. John, why don't you go say goodbye to my husband while I speak with Sherlock?" John nodded firmly, understanding the need for privacy, and stood up, casting a wary glance at Sherlock as he departed. Cadence made her way over to Sherlock's bed and sat on the edge. "I apologize about your father's behavior. But this time you seemed to have taken it well...maybe because someone actually stood up for you?" Sherlock didn't look at or speak to his mother. Cadence sighed and pushed his curls away from his eyes, as she used to when he was younger. His thoughts wondered to how it would feel if John did the same, but just as quick as the idea appeared, it dissipated. By force.

"John seems to make you really happy." Mrs. Holmes tried again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, finally speaking. "I suppose." But his mother didn't buy the whole teenager act. "I am your mother, Sherlock. And I have been in your position before. I know what has happened." Sherlock groaned exasperatedly and buried his reddened face in his pillow. "Please don't talk to me about this. You're wrong."

"Am I?" Sherlock made no effort to address her.

"It's okay that you are interested in John." Cadence assured him, and Sherlock repeated his groaned into his pillow. "Mummy. Please." She smiled weakly and ruffled his hair. "Fine. I apologize." Sherlock sighed frustratedly and rolled over to face her.

"I adore John. I'm glad you met him." Sherlock debated on his reply, but decided he could at least say it to his mother. "I am, too."

* * *

_The sky was pitch black, fog blocking any view of the stars. John could see his breath as it clouded before him, slowly. He looked around, wondering where he was and why he was there. Then he was aware of thick tree trunks and the crackling of forest floor as he took each step. Heart beat increasing with his fear, he picked up his pace._

_A loud snap from a distance froze John in his place, and he made a 360 degree scan. No one. He jogged, now, but the forest did not seem to end._

_And suddenly, dark laughter. John halted again, rapidly turning to locate the source. Nothing. As he faced back in the direction he was heading, a face obscured his view. With a startled yelp, he jumped back, tripping and falling onto his back painfully. The face was pale, almost white, and had black, endless pits for eyes. John recognized the male it belonged to, though, and he stared in horror as he spoke in a soft, horrifying voice. "John...it's nice to see you. You look good...too bad I'll have to kill you." John gasped and stood, sprinting away as fast as he could, heart rapid and breathing labored. He turned while still running to see if the boy was still behind him, but he was no where to be found. John breathed a sigh of relief, and turned, only to find the attacker in front of him. He skidded to a stop, eyes huge. "Please, don't do this..." he begged. He pulled out a gun, aiming it directly at John's chest. "Now your father will know exactly how I feel." He pulled the trigger, but not before being tackled by a dark figure. A sharp and sudden pain ignited in John's leg, and he fell onto the ground with an agonizing scream._

_"John..." John was loosing consciousness, black spreading over his vision. Blood pooled around him, warm and wet and bright red despite the night._

_"John..." Sherlock? John tried to sit up, but he had no control over any of his limbs._

_"I'm going to kill your little boyfriend, too." That deadly voice again. John choked back a sob, not realizing that tears were streaming down his face. "No!"_

"John!"_ A gunshot._

John jolted awake, breathing heavily and through body-racking sobs. Sherlock stood over him, concern etched all over his pale, faintly illuminated face.

"John, it's okay. You were having a nightmare. Calm down." His hands were on his shoulders, but the dream was so vivid that he wasn't sure if he was even alive. He grasped the burnet's hands, feeling warm skin, and a quick pulse when he found the point.

"Sh-Sherlock..." John stuttered, a slight whimper to his voice, hands sliding up his arms slowly, over his shoulders, up his neck before finally stopping on his cheeks. Sherlock shivered a few times, enjoying the contact but telling himself not to take advantage of John's vulnerable state...even though they were super close now and he could just kiss him if he really tried.

"D-do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock inquired, pulling away from John carefully and feeling cold. John was his warmth- his sun. Without him, he was an everlasting winter.

_Hm. Maybe I could use that for a poem._

John opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't get words to form. His eyes watered with fresh tears and he screwed them shut, turning away from Sherlock and finally shaking his head. Sherlock felt powerless- he wanted to comfort John, yet he had no idea how. He had never had to do so before, and the only time he had seen it was when his mother had done so to either him or Mycroft.

"That's...fine." _You're pathetic._

Then he thought of an idea- maybe if John was somewhere more familiar, he would sleep easier. And while he was unable to send him home, Sherlock's bed did have his scent. John practically lived with Sherlock nowadays, so the detective's smell should have been familiar enough.

"Can you stand?" John attempted to do so, Sherlock standing with him, until a sharp pain shot through his thigh right where he had been shot both over a year ago and in his dream, and he was falling, crying out in agonizing pain. Sherlock caught him before he toppled over, groaning with effort. John hissed, and Sherlock half-dragged the blond to his bed, helping him into it carefully. He pulled the covers up to his chin and turned to head to the couch- but John prevented him from doing so, catching his hand pulling him back. Sherlock forced back his blush, attempting to calm his racing heart and churning stomach. Although the warmth that flooded him, especially where their skin was in contact, was impossible to cope with. "John, you'll be fine. I'll be on the couch the whole time you're asleep." John tugged hand harshly, though, not hearing any of it.

Eventually, Sherlock ended up lying ramrod straight in his bed, John practically curled into a ball beside him. Sherlock found himself staring at John's sleeping state, where his tears and pain were gone and his face was peaceful and younger looking. He had the urge to reach out and map the blond's face out with his fingertips, but if he awoke, he didn't want to explain why he was doing it- he wouldn't know the answer, though he assumed it was because of his feelings for him. Cursing quietly to himself, he shut himself into his mind palace, eventually surrendering to his rare sleep state.

* * *

_Sherlock was working on some experiment- mixing different chemicals at his own lab work station. He was extremely focused...until John waltzed in. But Sherlock didn't let his facade crack. "Hello, John." He didn't receive a reply, so he looked up just in time to see John approach him quickly and straddle his lap. Sherlock dropped his experiment, now ruined, but with John on his lap he couldn't bring himself to care. John placed his palms on the side of Sherlock's face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones gently. His abdomen grew hot at this, and John didn't help the situation when he pressed his lips against Sherlock's._

_The kiss was far from gentle and slow- it was hot, fiery, hard, and bruising. His hot tongue swept across Sherlock's bottom lip, and though Sherlock had never kissed anyone before, it was easy to match John's movements and comply to his desires. With a moan, he opened his mouth wider and John's tongue darted in, wrestling Sherlock's for dominance. John's hands began to move from his cheeks, down his neck and trailing along his sides, making Sherlock squirm (because he was ticklish, but he would never admit it). One hand moved to his back, entire arm wrapping around his waist, while the other grasped his hip possessively. Sherlock groaned and pulled John closer, chest-to-chest. John bit down on his lower lip in response, and Sherlock groaned loudly, pulling his mouth away only to kiss along John's jawline and suck and nip at his neck. John moaned, and Sherlock became aware of John's erection brushing against his own, straining to be free from his trousers. He moaned as well, closing his eyes blissfully. "J-John..." The blond replied by cupping the detective's groin, and Sherlock choked out a startled gasp of pleasure, eyes snapping open to see-_

-John's sleeping face. Sherlock rubbed a hand over his own, sweat coated and flushed a bright red, exhaling a shuddering breath. It was a dream. An extremely vivid dream.

John laid on his side, facing him with his arm thrown around his waist. One of Sherlock's arms were trapped beneath his body, while the other one had been resting on his waist. His leg was wrapped rather possessively around John's, and, sadly, he had a souvenir from the dream aching to be released in his pajama bottoms. "Fuck..." Sherlock cursed quietly, moving quickly and careful to detangle himself from John. The blond only rolled over, back facing him now, before settling down and continuing his sleep. Sherlock wondered if he could will his erection away without a shower or another measure, so he rolled over with his back to John's and attempted to erase the dream...but he found he could not. Frustrated, he forced it to the back of his mind, and thought of other things.

By the time John woke up, Sherlock was back to normal. His eyes shot open at John's sudden movements, rolling onto his back and stretching. "Sherlock?" he croaked, and then cleared his throat. Sherlock rolled over to face him hesitantly. "Good morning, John." John turned his head to him and then chuckled quietly, looking back up at the ceiling warily.

"What is it?" Sherlock inquired, and John sighed, letting his eyes fall closed as he shook his head. "Just...sorry. For last night."

"Don't be." Sherlock replied almost immediately, and John rolled onto his side to face him. "Well I am. You had to see me like that...all broken and weak. I was being irrational- I should've just let you sleep on the couch."

_I agree..._ Sherlock thought bitterly, shutting up his pleasured side that didn't.

"You needed comfort, John. I'm just the last person you should expect it from." John grinned widely. "Oh, so that's why you shared a bed with me?" Sherlock flushed slightly, not replying. John focused on his pink cheeks. "Are you-"

"Tell me about your nightmare." Sherlock ordered, cutting John off. John looked taken aback, but his shoved his fingers into his disheveled hair, messing it up even more (no, Sherlock did _not_ want to smooth it out...), and sighed heavily. "Can't you deduce it?"

"I could, but it would help you to talk about it." Sherlock claimed, and John, figuring he was right, began his re-telling, finding that his stress was slowly being eased from his shoulders. Sherlock nodded slowly, taking all of the nightmare in before he began his deductions. "Half of it was real- your attacker actually said those things to you. He was upset because your father...your father who was in the war, didn't save his own father when a grenade exploded and blew off his arm. They were best friends, and so were you and the shooter, until his dad died...he slowly lost his mind and then lost it on you, wanting nothing but revenge. He tried to kill you, but he didn't succeed, and now he's in jail for it.

I was killed because you're scared that Katherine's murderer is after me and that I'll get hurt- you don't want to loose me, so your nightmare insured that you did."

"Yeah." John said, looking down in shame. Sherlock reached out and placed his hand on his shoulder, making John look back up to him. Sherlock eyes were looking at anything but his face. "It's okay, John. I...I worry about you too." John felt his cheeks ignite, but he grinned and patted Sherlock's hand, which brought his gaze back to his face. Then, he dared to ask.

"John. Who exactly was your friend?"

John took a deep breath, and then forced his answer out.

"His name is Jim. Jim Moriarty."

* * *

John could stand this morning when he climbed out of bed, regretting it instantly because _damn_ it was amazingly warm under the covers with Sherlock. He craved to crawl back into bed and fall back asleep, still worn out from everything that occurred yesterday.

Sherlock was ready to support John just in case his wound was bothering him, and he actually got a glimpse of it this time- John was in his navy boxers and a grey T-shirt (_Not attractive at all, _Sherlock thought, fighting back a blush), so it was easy to see. He was staring at it, and John noticed. He squirmed, uncomfortable with Sherlock's eyes lingering on any part of his body...and somewhat giddy.

The scar wasn't horrible- the bullet wasn't originally supposed to hit there, and the unintentional shot didn't hit anything severely important. Just a few shiny, pink uneven lines holding his skin together.

"Who tackled him?" Sherlock wondered, and John shrugged. "It was late, and in the middle of the street. Some very brave pedestrian. I never got to see his face. But he sure as hell surprised Jim- the stranger bashed his head against the pavement and knocked him right out, and called for an ambulance. I was out before they got to me, and I remember a little bit of the ride and hospital, but nothing else after that." Sherlock was focused on the scar, though, and made no effort to reply to him. "Fascinating..." he murmured, reaching for the scar tissue. John jumped back before he couldn't touch him- he half wanted him to, and that scared him. The other half didn't want it to hurt. "I-I need a shower."

John leaned against the shower wall of tile, allowing water to cascade over his head like a waterfall. He allowed streams of water to trickle down his face, eyes closed so they wouldn't get irritated. He didn't know what was wrong with him now. He figured anytime he sought anything from Sherlock that was more than friendship, it was because of his emotions going haywire. But now...nothing was happening. Yesterday was over, and nothing was nagging at him anymore. He felt comfortable when he woke up this morning...

Too comfortable. He never wanted to leave Sherlock's bed. Because he was there with him.

He couldn't be falling in love with his best friend. No.

_Shit._

John groaned and rubbed his face vigorously. He prayed for Monday to come faster, because if he really was falling for Sherlock, he needed to get over him.

He realized that maybe that was easier said than done, because when he walked back into the burnet's room, his face flushed at what Sherlock was wearing. He looked a bit more casual, his untucked, violet dress shirt's sleeves rolled to the elbows, a pair of grey skinny jeans hugging his legs (_And arse- why the hell did you notice that?!_), tucked into purple high top Converse. John realized he was staring, particularly at his backside, and cleared his throat and willed away any unnecessary blood flow. "Ready?" Sherlock smirked at him with satisfaction. Maybe he should dress like that more often if it got John's attention. "Are you?"

* * *

"Sherlock, why don't you let me introduce us to her parents?" The two were in a cab on the way to the Riley's, and his reoccurring dread was surfacing at the thought of the parent's reactions.

Sherlock looked up from his mobile, confused. "What? Why?" John sighed. "Well, sometimes you forget how you should act towards people...especially people who lost their child." Sherlock scowled at him and then hid his pout by staring out the window. John rolled his eyes and chuckled softly. Then he felt his pocket vibrate. He pulled his phone out and stared at the text.

_Hey John, its Sarah :)_

John grinned broadly at the text, preparing to reply when Sherlock spoke.

"Who messaged you?" John looked at him, who he found was leaning over curiously. John held his phone away from the detective. "You deduce it and don't read my texts!" he exclaimed, and Sherlock snorted with an eye roll. "Like I want to read your failed attempts at flirting back to Sarah." John glared at the brunet frustratedly. "I've been told I'm excellent at flirting!"

"Of course, and that is why your ex terminated the relationship for another guy." Sherlock dead-panned, turning his attention back to his mobile and texting whoever. John stared incredulously at him, the glare melting off of his face like butter. "How did you- never mind. Like you're any good at flirting, Mr. 'Not-Really-My-Area.'"

"On the contrary, I am rather friendly with Molly Hooper sometimes because her father owns the morgue. She allows me entrance anytime I compliment her." Sherlock protested calmly. John pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh that might as well of said, "I'm-getting-tired-of-your-shit."

"Sherlock, that's horrible, the way you use her!" he exclaimed, and actually startled Sherlock very slightly. He even looked genuinely surprised, as if he didn't know that it was wrong to use people to his advantage...

He did know, right?

"...Sherlock, it's wrong to treat people like that..." John started softly, and Sherlock brushed it off without a word, sadly looking at his mobile. Of course he had disappointed John. Again.

John was oblivious to his sadness, because Sarah had texted him, and she was pretty and nice and wanted to be a doctor like him and they were perfect for each other and she was normal. She wasn't like Sherlock. She was a female. She was what John really wanted. He wouldn't deny his feelings about her. But who would ever want to love Sherlock? He was impossible to deal with and he didn't understand why John was even still here.

But he didn't want him to leave, that was for sure.

It would be nice if maybe John would wake up and wish he were with Sherlock and not Sarah, though...

* * *

"I don't understand. We were questioned yesterday." Mrs. Riley sniffed, dabbing a tissue at her bloodshot, tear-filled eyes. Her husband put an arm around her and pulled her closer.

"We are aware of that, m'am..." John began softly, and looked to Sherlock, facial features saying "Be nice. Or else." Sherlock nodded ever-so slightly, and began. "And we apologize for bothering you again. But we were close to Kitty, and worked with her on the newspaper committee. My colleague and I are taking over, and we want our next issue to be primarily about her. So we need to ask just a few questions."

"And then we'll leave." John added, sending Sherlock an approving smile. Sherlock had his mask up, but behind that he was practically beaming.

"Alright." Mr. Riley finally accepted after a moment's hesitation. Sherlock nodded towards John to begin taking notes.

"Mr. and Mrs. Riley, do you have any idea who would do this to Katherine and why?" Sherlock began, and Mrs. Riley shook her head slowly, tears threatening to burst past her eyes. "No. Kitty was very much loved by everyone. Well, except for that Sally girl, but I see no reason for her to...to do such a thing." A single year slipped down her cheek as she choked out her answer, and she wiped it away with a sob.

"So you don't think Sally is capable of mur- ...hurting Katherine?" Sherlock continued, and Mr. Riley answered. "They had never engaged in violence previously." Now he sounded close to tears. John felt his heart breaking, and looked to Sherlock miserably. Sherlock briefly placed his hand on John's shoulder. It'll be okay. John smiled weakly at him.

"What about any family members? Has there ever been any severe conflict?" Both the Riley's shook their heads. "Both of our sides have always been peaceful people. Of course, we've all had our disagreements, but this family has always been very close." Mr. Riley supplied, stroking his wife's arm.

"Any relationships that she's had?" Sherlock wondered, already growing frustrated with the investigation that was going no where.

"She's only had one with Richie...oh he's such a sweet boy. He won't be home until Monday afternoon. He was out of town when it happened...he was so upset when we called him..." Mrs. Riley explained.

"How long had they been together?" Sherlock wondered.

"Almost six months." Mr. Riley replied. Sherlock thought for a moment. "Do you mind telling me where he lives? Having his thoughts would be an excellent segment in the article." John wrote down the address, and then, as a cover for their "newspaper" story, they asked a few more pointless questions while John scribbled aimlessly on his notepad. He wasn't paying much attention to the conversation anymore, so Sherlock startled him when he tapped his shoulder and stood up, ready to leave. John, too, stood, and thanked the couple for their time. "I'm sorry for your loss..." he apologized as he walked out. The husband held onto his wife for what seemed like dear life, and she sniffed. "Thank you." John nodded once and followed Sherlock away to hail a cab.

"Why did you apologize? You didn't do anything." Sherlock wondered, and John looked at him as if he were a child needing to be taught wrong from right...sometimes, that was the case. "Because it's the right thing to do." His eyes were bright, clear and blue- Sherlock could feel himself drowning in them like an ocean. John Hamish Watson was doing things to him he had never thought possible.

He was falling, falling, falling...

And absolutely no where close to landing yet, if he ever would at all.


End file.
